


Inevitable Discovery

by GilShalos1



Series: He Does The Maximum [13]
Category: Law & Order, Law & Order: Criminal Intent
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Complete, Crimes & Criminals, Detectives, Drama, F/F, F/M, Friendship, Legal Drama, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Murder Mystery, Romance, Suspense, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-22
Updated: 2008-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-24 01:38:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 51
Words: 89,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8351287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GilShalos1/pseuds/GilShalos1
Summary: A shocking crime has personal and professional implications for those at the 27th Precinct, in the Major Case Squad, and in the District Attorney's Office. Past decisions can come back to haunt you. And things concealed can't be hidden for ever.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I am not NY native or indeed an American, as my woefully inadequate knowledge of NY geography and the American legal system makes perfectly clear! I do, however, love Law and Order. Here, we get the episodes years late and often out of order, which has led to my long-standing confusion between who is in the show when and why and how old they are. My fannish imagination therefore has its own chronology, which differs from the show's canon in only three substantial ways: Lennie Briscoe didn't retire; Jack McCoy was snap-frozen ten years ago (since that's the age he is in the reruns that are all our free-to-air channels see fit to give us); and my series kicks off at the beginning of series seventeen, so it is substantially AU to everything from then on.
> 
> It occurs time-wise around the middle of season 6 of L&O:CI and follows canon up to there.

"You know we have to," the girl said. She tucked her stringy black hair behind her ears and leaned forward, earnest. "You _promised_. And they _can't_ get away with it."

"I know," her companion said. "I know. But it's going to be harder than you think. There are so many of them. And they're – you know – _serious_ people."

"Serious people? Serious _frauds_. You know the way they played around!" she said angrily. "Are you going to chicken out now?"

"No! No. But we need to be patient. We need to plan."

She grinned, the expression making her look suddenly young and impish. "I _have_ a plan! That's why I called you. And look!" She opened the duffel bag she carried. "What'dyou think?"

Lips pursed in a soundless whistle, her companion looked down into the bag. "That should get the job done," he said. "That should get it done, alright."

"We don't need to be patient," the girl said. "And we don't have much time. It's got to be done before January. For _both_ of us."

* * *

.oOo.


	2. Ten Thirteen

_Prince St, Manhattan_

_2 pm Thursday 14 December 2006_

* * *

Mike Logan was so tired.

Wheeler wouldn't leave him alone. "Come on Mike look at me, look at me, you just look at me, Mike, _Mike_!" She had his hand in a crushing grip and when he tried to ignore her she slapped his cheek, then pinched it, _hard_. "Mike, Mike, _Mike_ , dammit!"

She sounded upset. It pissed him off that she wouldn't let him sleep, but she was his partner, and she sounded upset, so Logan made the effort and opened his eyes.

Wheeler was milk white under her freckles, eyes wide. There was blood on her face. "What?" Logan tried to say, but his tongue was thick and numb in his mouth.

"Hang on, Mike, you just _hang on_ , you look at me, come on," Wheeler said fiercely. "I got you, I got you, you stay with me, stay with me, Mike, _Mike_!"

There were sirens in the distance. Logan couldn't tell if they were coming closer or fading away into the darkness that had inexplicably fallen over the street in the middle of the afternoon. _Seen that_ , Logan thought, colder than cold. _Seen the sky go dark_. He struggled to ask Wheeler what it was this time, what building was burning, falling, what nightmare the city was living. But he was too tired. _So tired._ Someone else was going to have to deal with it.

" _Mike!_ " Wheeler screamed in his face. She pinched his cheek again and then took his face in her hands. "Open your eyes, Mike, look at me, _look at me_. _Mike!"_

_Won't take fuckin' no for an answer_ , Logan thought wearily. _Fuck this_.

"Don't you quit on me, you son-of-a-bitch, don't you do it, Mike, _Mike, Mike"_ Wheeler's voice cracked on the ragged edge of hysteria. _Oh, Jesus_ , Logan thought, _fuckin' rookies, can't get a moment's rest without them needing baby-sitting_.

He made a Herculean effort and opened his eyes again. Wheeler's face was inches from his, her eyes wide and wild. _Calm the fuck down, Wheeler_ , he wanted to say. _Get it together. You're a cop. Fuckin' act like one_. _What the fuck is worth all this drama, anyway?_

None of those words would come out of his mouth. He managed to make a sound, and Wheeler's eyes filled with tears.

"That's it Mike, that's it, hang on, stay with me, hang on, I got you, _I got you Mike_ , you look at me, _look at me_ , Mike, come on now," Wheeler ordered, pleaded, cajoled. She was almost invisible in the gathering dark but Logan felt her hands on his face, smoothing back his hair. "Don't you quit on me, don't you dare. I'm right here, Mike, don't you, don't you _dare!_ I'm right here. Stay with me. Stay with me. Stay with me..."

She was his partner. You don't leave your partner on their own, not on a New York street gone midnight in broad daylight. You don't leave your partner when they need you.

Logan tried. Even after he couldn't see her at all in the dark he tried.

_So tired._

"Mike!"

He tried. Knew he was failing.

_S_ _orry, Wheeler. Sorry._

Gone.

* * *

.oOo.


	3. Man Down

_One Hogan Place_

_2.35 pm Thursday 14 December 2006_

* * *

Her arms full of files, Regan Markham nearly walked into Jack McCoy as he barreled out of his office.

"Jack - ?" she started to say.

He hardly slowed. "Got to go," he called back over his shoulder, pulling on his coat as he strode down the corridor. "Shot cop on Prince St."

"You want me - ?" Regan said, hurrying after him. _Shot cop._ The copper taste of blood flooded her mouth.

"No," McCoy said, with a quick glance that let Regan know he could tell just how relieved she was to hear that. "Tell Colleen I'm out, cancel everything for at least two hours – " The elevator doors opened and he got in and thumped the button for the lobby with a clenched fist. "I'll call from the cab," he said, and was gone.

_Shot cop._

Regan shivered despite the fact that the furnace at One Hogan Place had been stuck on full since Monday and most of the ADAs were working in shirtsleeves.

_Shot cop._

"Clear Mr. McCoy's diary for the next two hours," she told Colleen Petraky. "He might need longer."

The executive administrator nodded and reached for the phone without wasting time on questions. Not for the first time, Regan envied her legendary unflappability.

_Shot cop._

_Nothing I can do right now_ , Regan told herself. She hoisted her files and went back to her desk, where she spent five minutes staring at the first piece of paper in the first file without reading a single word, until the ringing phone startled her.

She lifted the receiver and heard McCoy's familiar rasp.

He filled her in the call he'd gotten from Anita Van Buren and Regan tried to concentrate. The second time she had to ask him to repeat himself she picked up a pen and started taking notes in an effort to keep herself focused.

_Shot cop._

_And he's screaming and screaming and the_ _blood is running slick down under her shirt and she can't –_

She snapped back to the present to hear McCoy saying, "I worked with Mike Logan. Years ago, when he was a homicide detective with the 2-7. He was Lennie Briscoe's partner. When the call came in on this Van Buren redlined it straight to my desk."

"Do we know the where what why?" Regan asked.

"Just what I told you: Mike Logan, Prince St, two shots to the chest. He was hanging on when the ambulance got there, but Anita said it didn't look good."

"Where's Briscoe?" Regan asked.

"Green drove him to Mercy General."

"Good," Regan said. _Partners … partners stay partners._

"I'm here," McCoy said. "Call you later."

After a moment Regan realized she was listening to a dial tone.

She hung up and read the notes she'd taken on automatic pilot. _Three shots fired just before 2 pm – Prince near Crosby – Megan Wheeler and Mike Logan – Logan hit twice in the chest – Wheeler unhurt – Van Buren ranking on the scene._

_Shot cop. Twice in the chest._

"Regan?" Arthur Branch's southern twang made her jump. She looked up to see him standing in the doorway of her office.

"Yes, sir?" she said.

"What in tarnation are you doing here?" Branch asked exasperatedly.

"Sorry, sir?"

"One of New York's finest has been shot and rushed to hospital, _clinging_ to life," Branch said. "My EADA is down at the scene. And why, pray tell, are you not with him?"

"He suggested I stay here, sir," Regan said.

"Did he now?" Branch frowned. "Why would he do that? You having an attack of nerves?"

"No sir, I'm fine," Regan said.

"You should be, ten days of leave," Branch said. "You should be good as new."

"I am, sir. Good as gold," Regan said.

"Then put your goddamn coat on and get down to the city's hottest crime scene!" Branch ordered.

"Yes, sir," Regan said. When Branch stayed in the doorway of her office glaring at her, Regan realized he meant _right now_. She leapt to her feet and grabbed her coat, stuffing her phone and a notebook in her briefcase. Branch stepped back from the doorway enough to let her pass and Regan hustled for the lift.

When she turned back and pressed the button for the lobby she could see Branch still watching her.

_Crap._

_Good as gold_ , she'd told him. _Ha!_

Physically, she was on the mend. Her bruises were almost gone, the grazes on her face barely visible, the rope burns on her wrist, ankles and neck practically healed. Even the deep bone bruises and cracked ribs only really troubled her at the end of the day.

_Good as gold._

And she slept through the night – well, she mostly slept through most of the nights. With a solid belt of scotch – _be honest, with several solid belts of scotch_ – for a nightcap. And if she sat still enough and worked very hard at not thinking, she could keep up an excellent façade of normalcy at work.

_Shot cop._

She pulled on her coat as she hurried across the lobby. As she pushed through the doors onto the street the noise of the traffic struck like a slap in the face but distantly, beneath it, Regan could hear the _ack-ack-ack_ of automatic gun fire and _screaming, screaming …_

She wiped cold sweat from her face, coughed to clear the taste of blood from her mouth and raised her hand to hail a cab.

The ride passed in a daze. The cab finally reached Prince and Crosby and Regan pushed some bills into the cabbie's hand as she was opening the door. On the sidewalk, she hesitated, trying to see McCoy.

_Cops_ _ **everywhere**_ _._ No surprise. When a cop was shot, it was an attack on a colleague, but also an attack on the job. Every cop felt as if it might easily have been them. They were very keen that anyone with a tendency to take pot-shots at the boys in blue be off the street as soon as possible.

Regan could see evidence tape roping off a patch of sidewalk with smears and splotches of blood. Beyond it, Anita Van Buren was talking to a tall man with graying curly hair – a man Regan judged to be inches taller even than McCoy or even Detective Green.

_Speaking of_ … she could see Ed Green striding down the street and hurried towards him.

"How's Lennie?" she asked as soon as she was in earshot.

"Shook up," Green said. He looked fairly shook up himself to Regan. "But he insisted I come back here. Wants this son-of-a-bitch caught."

"I can imagine," Regan said. "Seen McCoy?"

"I just got here," Green said. "I got to talk to the Lieu."

Regan followed him towards Van Buren. They both had to stop as a young woman with cropped red hair barreled straight across their path.

"I have to go to the _hospital_ ," she said to the man following her. Regan recognized the dark curly hair – she'd seen him at a press conference. _Captain Ross_.

"Wheeler, take it easy," Ross said, taking the red-head's arm. "The most important thing you can do for Logan now is give your statement. He's in surgery. What are you going to do at the hospital? Use your magic powers to make the operation go better?"

"I need to _be_ there," Wheeler pleaded, sounding strangled. "Captain, I _need to be there_."

Regan glanced at Green. He was studying the ground. _Wheeler doesn't deserve an audience for this_. But Ross and Wheeler were directly in front of them and Regan would have to push past them to get further up the street. She stuck her hands in her pocket and turned aside, scanning the faces of the bystanders as Ross took Wheeler by the shoulders and gave her a little shake.

"Everybody knows what you're going through. Everybody understands," he told her. "Everyone's going to cut you slack. But, Wheeler, this is where it counts. Right here. This is where you have to decide what kind of cop you're going to be. Whether you're going to be run-of-the-mill or whether you're going to be one of the ones who _gets it done_ , gets it done _every time_. This is it. Make a choice."

Regan could hear Wheeler gasping for breath. "Captain!" she said imploringly. "You don't understand! He _died_. Before the bus got here. He _died_."

"And they got him back, and they took him to hospital, and they are operating on him right now. And you need to do your job _right now_. _Make a choice_ , Wheeler," Ross said, voice hard. "You are sitting at the grown-up table."

Silence. Then Wheeler heaved a shaky sigh. "We were parked up there, you can see the car, and we were checking out a tip on a witness in the Jackson case. Tip said he – "

Beside her, Regan saw Green had his notebook out and was taking notes. Regan touched his arm to get his attention and rolled her eyes towards Van Buren. Green nodded, still writing, and Regan left him to it.

Ten more steps brought her to where Van Buren and the tall man – Regan saw the gold shield clipped to his lapel as she got closer – were talking intently.

As she stopped near them Van Buren leaned forward and behind her Regan saw the pool of blood on the sidewalk.

_Shot cop._

* * *

.oOo.


	4. Hit Real Hard

_Prince St, Manhattan_

_3.05 pm Thursday 14 December 2006_

* * *

_I'm getting to hate the sound of Anita's voice over a phone line_ , McCoy thought, staring down at the pool of blood on the sidewalk.

" _Jack_ , _it's Mike Logan. He's been shot. It looks bad."_

McCoy looked down at Mike Logan's life-blood at his feet and thought that it did indeed look bad.

"Jack," Van Buren said behind him. McCoy turned to see her standing there with Robert Goren from Major Case and –

_Regan?_

"Mr. Branch ordered me down here," Regan said, staring at the pool of blood on the sidewalk. She looked up and met McCoy's gaze, shrugged a little. "All hands on deck, I guess."

McCoy shook his head but let it go. "What have we got, Anita?" McCoy asked.

"Mike's holding his own," Van Buren said, answering the question he'd wanted to ask rather than the one he had. "But – he was in pretty bad shape when they got to him. They had to bring him back. A couple of times before they got him to Mercy General."

" _Lieutenant_ ," Goren said. "We haven't finished our discussion." McCoy saw Goren's partner, Alexandra Eames, for the first time as she moved a little closer to Goren, hands in her pockets and face studiously neutral.

"Yes, we _have_ , detective," Van Buren said.

"I'm familiar with the case Detective Logan was working," Goren said, with a little laugh that had no humor to it. "I really think that Detective Eames and I – "

"Are too close to this and will not be primaries on this," Van Buren said, unmoved. "I gave you a job to do, Detective. Go get your partner and _do_ it."

Goren smiled with as little humor as he'd laughed. From anyone else, McCoy would have characterized it as a nervous laugh, an ingratiating smile. But he'd seen enough of Bobby Goren over the past years to know the huge detective with the impressive solve-rate was neither prone to nerves nor inclined to ingratiation.

"O-okay," Goren said, rubbing his forehead with one finger. "We can talk more about this later."

"You can talk about it all you like, Detective Goran," Van Buren said. "I'm not going to be listening."

Goren leaned forward and McCoy thought maybe he was going to push the point but he met Van Buren's cold stare and thought better of it. Goren took a step backwards, then another, then turned and walked off towards Eames. Head cocked, she waited for him to reach her and then fell in step with him, heading up the street.

Anita Van Buren turned her back on both of them and sighed, breath making a white cloud in the cold air. She shook her head. "I am _glad_ he is not in my house," she said. "Solve rate or not."

"What happened?" McCoy asked.

"At least three shots," Van Buren said. "Mike was hit twice. Looks like the shots came from up there – " she pointed, and McCoy and Regan turned to look.

The windows of the apartment buildings looked back down at them, blank and indifferent.

"Ballistics will give us more on the angle and maybe let us narrow down the location," Van Buren said. "Plus we got guys crawling over the rooftops looking for trace – and the canvass is already in full swing." She shrugged. "That's all we got so far, Jack, I don't know what to tell you."

"Nothing from the witnesses?" McCoy asked.

"A few people who heard the shots, saw him fall. Some heard three shots. One heard ten. One heard five. Nobody saw anything like a muzzle flash or anything useful."

McCoy tilted his head back to study the building across the street again. "From up there – if they were aiming at what they hit, you're looking for a good shot. With a rifle?"

"Probably. When we get the bullets to the lab will have more idea," Van Buren said. "And if God loves us this week we'll find a witness who saw a neighbor carrying a sniper rifle in the elevator this morning."

"And if it was Mike, if it was _him_ who was the target, not just a cop?"

"I got people pulling his open cases as we speak," Van Buren said.

"Need manpower?" McCoy asked.

" _Always_ ," Van Buren told him.

"All right. I'll talk to Arthur, see if we can free up some bodies."

"That'd be appreciated, Jack," Van Buren. McCoy thought he heard weariness in her voice and looked at her more closely. She gave him her usual impassive expression, Anita Van Buren, tough as nails, professional cop to the bone.

"Regan, can you go find Ed Green for me?" McCoy asked her.

"Sure, Jack," Regan said. When she was out of earshot, McCoy leaned a little closer to Van Buren.

"You okay, Anita?" he asked her.

She sighed. "I remember when Mike Logan was a hot-headed boy with a lot of promise."

"Me too," McCoy said. "He's changed. Did they send him to anger management classes over on Staten Island?"

Van Buren snorted. "Maybe. I hope – " She sighed. "I hope he has enough of that fire left. He got hit real hard, Jack. _Real_ hard."

"He'll pull through this," McCoy assured her, but he felt a chill touch him at her words.

"I'm getting too old for this," Van Buren said. "Did you see that little girl they have partnered with him? She's about as old as Mike was when Mike lost his first partner."

"That was Max Greevey, right?" McCoy said. "Did you work with him?"

"No," Van Buren said. "That was Don Cragen." She looked down at the blood on the sidewalk. "I swear to god, Jack – I don't want to be having this conversation about Megan Wheeler one day – explaining to somebody that I knew her way back when she lost her first partner – "

"You won't be," McCoy said.

"There's no way to get used to this," Van Buren said. "I though we were going to lose Ed two years ago. He's a lot younger than Mike, Jack." She shook her head. "A lot younger than all of us. I'm too old for this. I'm too old."

McCoy touched her arm gently to get her attention away from the pool of blood at her feet. "Anita? That hard-headed stubborn Mick son-of-a-bitch is too tough for a couple of bullets to handle."

Van Buren lifted her head and McCoy saw her put her professional composure back in place. He tightened his grip on her arm a little and Van Buren covered his fingers with her own and smiled. "That's true, Jack," she said. "That is true." She looked past him. "Ed. How's Lennie?"

McCoy turned to see Regan and Green approaching.

"Lennie's – he's Lennie," Green said, and shrugged.

"Don't be leaving him on his own too much," Van Buren said. "You understand me?"

"Yes, ma'am, I do," Green said.

"All right," McCoy said. "I don't think there's much more for us to learn here. We've shown the public face of the DA's Office – and I want to check in at Mercy General. Keep me – "

"Keep you posted?" Van Buren said sardonically, raising eyebrow. McCoy put his hand on her shoulder for a second in wordless apology and she smiled. "You're my number one phone call, Jack."

"I won't tell Donald," McCoy reassured her, grinning. "Regan – you coming? You want to work the scene some more? Or go straight back to the office?"

She hesitated. "I think I'd like to see how Lennie is, Jack, if that's okay with you."

"Of course it is," McCoy said. "Come on. Ed can give us a lift."

As they followed Green back to where the detective had parked his unmarked, McCoy looked at the faces of the bystanders. There were the usual gawkers, the idly curious, but he also saw more a few who looked excited, even smug. _After 9-11 we thought NYPD would mean 'hero' forever._

_Unwarranted optimism._

Out of the corner of his eye McCoy saw a man – _no, a boy, can't be more than thirteen_ – raise his hand towards Green and the two prosecutors. The gesture was sickeningly familiar and McCoy felt an instant of ice-cold terror before he realized the kid was unarmed, was pointing nothing more harmful than his finger at the police in the age-old cops-and-robbers position.

He turned away to see Green's hand leaving his gun, the detective's eyes a little wide, breathing a little fast. "Stupid!" Green said, shaking his head.

"Yeah," McCoy agreed, and turned to Regan Markham to share the sentiment, and realized she wasn't by his side, although her briefcase was lying on the pavement. "What - ?"

"Jesus, man!" Green said, grabbing his arm, turning him back towards the crowd.

* * *

.oOo.


	5. Anger Management

McCoy saw that Regan was gone, saw her briefcase lying on the pavement and then Green grabbed his arm, turning him back towards the crowd.

Regan was just in the act of ducking under the police tape. She waded into the crowd and grabbed the boy who'd mimed shooting at them by the front of his shirt.

"Get her out of there," McCoy told Green, who started forward. Regan was dragging the boy back towards the police line. McCoy could hear her voice rising above the murmur of the on-lookers.

"You think it's funny, shooting at police? You think it's fucking funny? You think it's a game, cop-killing? Huh? Huh? _Answer_ me, you piece of shit, you goddamn stupid –"

Green reached her then, got her by one arm and the boy by the other. "Let him go, ma'am," he said, separated them, pushed the boy towards one of the uniformed cops. "Put him in a patrol, I'll be along in a minute," he ordered, and the cop took hold of the kid and moved him off. Regan, swearing, tried to go after him and Green got her around the waist and dragged her back.

"Let me fucking go, goddamn it!" Regan struggled, lost a shoe.

"Get her in the car," McCoy said. He grabbed Regan's briefcase and shoe and followed as Green wrestled Regan into the back seat of the unmarked and slammed the door on her.

"I gotta go cool this down," Green said, and McCoy nodded.

"I'll pull around the block and wait for you," he said. Green gave him the keys to the unmarked and McCoy got in the driver's seat.

"Let me the fuck out of the goddamn car!" Regan snarled in the back seat. McCoy looked back at her, glaring at him like she was about to haul off and hit _him_ , shaking with rage, incandescent with it.

"Not a chance," he said shortly. He drove the car around the block and found somewhere to park, then just sat, hands on the steering wheel, listening to Regan in the back seat, hearing her panting with anger. _Goddamn!_ he thought. _She swore to me she was fine. She_ _ **seemed**_ _fine. Ten days off, and she's flying off the handle as quickly as ever._

He'd given her the benefit of the doubt – had felt a certain sympathy for her after their trip to Carthage. _Shot in the line – even if just in the arm – a big readjustment to losing a job she'd loved – and a childhood that was hardly a fairytale. No wonder she's a little touchy._

But no amount of sympathy could justify ignoring her behavior any longer.

_This can't go on. Branch won't stand for it. I can't have it. I need someone I can_ _ **rely**_ _on._ The easy rapport they shared made the working day run smoothly. _But I can't have someone in my second chair who assaults suspects, let alone bystanders. I might like working with her but she's become a liability, one I can't afford._

Finally he heard Regan's breathing slow to a calmer rate. Only then did he turn around.

"You got a hold of yourself?" he asked.

"Yeah," Regan said sullenly.

'Then do you mind telling me, what the _hell_ was _that_?"

"Shooting at cops isn't a joke, Jack! Goddamn!" She pounded her fist on the car window so hard he thought she was going to break it.

"I know it isn't a joke, my father was a cop, dammit! It isn't a reason to start whaling on a teenager in the middle of a crime scene, either!"

"I didn't hit him."

"That's not how it's going to look on the news. This is the era of the camera phone, Regan." He shook his head. "I _asked_ you. I _gave you the option._ Sit it out, I said. Oh, no. If Branch asks you, you're fine. Horseshit, Regan. Now I have to deal with a goddamn media firestorm in the middle of a case with a shot cop and Arthur Branch is going to go _ballistic_."

"I'll take the heat," Regan said sullenly.

"You'll damn well take the heat. You'll also get on the phone when we get back to the office and make and appointment to see one of our tame shrinks. In fact, use my phone, make it now."

"I do _not_ need – "

"This is not a request! When Arthur asks what I'm doing about you I want to be able to tell him it's _already taken care of!_ " He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and punched a number on the speed-dial, then held it out to her. "Emil Skoda. Make a time."

She glared at him, jaw set and eyes narrowed. McCoy could hear the phone ringing faintly and then Skoda at the other end.

"Hello?" the shrink said. "Hello, Jack?"

With an angry huff of breath Regan snatched the phone from McCoy's hand. "Dr Skoda," she said. "Regan Markham. How's your calendar looking tomorrow?"

* * *

.o0o.


	6. Waiting Rooms

_Mercy General_

_3.30 pm Thursday 14 December 2006_

* * *

Jack McCoy pressed the call button for the elevator, then impatiently pressed it again.

_I hate this hospital._

"I hate hospitals," Regan said quietly. "Nothing good ever happened to me in a hospital."

McCoy looked up, surprised to hear his own thoughts out loud.

Regan been silent on the drive over and McCoy had wondered if she was still angry with him. _As if_ _ **she**_ _has the right to be angry with_ _ **me**_ _,_ he'd fumed, then noticed the way Regan refused to meet his gaze and realized she wasn't angry. She was _ashamed_.

That realization had cooled his own indignation. _Neither_ _of us thought it was a good idea for her to be there_ , McCoy thought now, watching Regan study the lights above the elevator door, her face pale and set. _Although I was hoping to spare_ _ **her**_ _, not the bystanders!_

"I think that's true for a lot of people," he said, and Regan glanced at him and gave a tiny smile. He remembered then that the last time _she'd_ been in this hospital she'd been brought in on a gurney and the time before had been to watch as the doctors turned off Mary Firienze's life-support. _But she was adamant she wanted to be here_. _Not for Mike – she's never met him. For Lennie._

The elevator doors opened and McCoy followed Regan inside. She hit the button for the surgical floor. As the elevator moved upwards McCoy watched the lights flicker past the floor where Ed Green had lain on a ventilator, past the floor where the doctors had told him Claire could never recover, past the floor where he'd seen Casey Novak, pale and bruised, the one where Mary Firienze had taken her last breath. The light stopped – stopped at the floor where McCoy and Serena had waited to hear the outcome of Danielle Melnick's surgery.

_I hate this hospital. Nothing good ever happened to me in_ _**this** _ _hospital._

"It's this way," McCoy told Regan, and led the way down the corridor to the waiting room.

Lennie Briscoe was standing with his back to the door, looking out the window at the late afternoon gloom.

"Lennie," McCoy said, and the detective started a little, then brushed at his eyes and turned.

"Jack," he said with quite a good imitation of a smile. "What brings you here?"

"I was looking for the public library and got lost," McCoy said dryly, and Lennie snorted.

"I always said you Micks had a lousy sense of direction. Mike used to get us lost on the way to just about every call-out." He seemed to notice Regan for the first time. "You looking for the library too?" he asked her.

"I heard a friend of mine was having a bad day," Regan said. Briscoe smiled and brushed her arm with his fingers.

"How's he doing, Lennie?" McCoy asked.

"I haven't heard," Briscoe said. "They said he was in pretty bad shape when they brought him in – it'll be a while before he's out of surgery."

"Hey, man," Ed Green said from the door.

"Not that it's not nice to see you all," Briscoe said, "but don't you all have jobs you should be doing? Felons to catch, defense attorneys to outwit?"

"I got some time," Green said. "Do you want a cup of coffee or something?"

"I'm good," Briscoe said. "What I would like, is to know where Mike's partner is." There was an edge to his voice.

"She's giving her statement," Regan said. "I saw her at the scene. She was pretty keen to get down here but her captain put the weights on her to put the job first."

Briscoe snorted. "Modern policing," he said sourly.

"I think she'd have preferred to do it old-school," Regan said, and Briscoe's mouth twitched in a wry smile.

_Smooth_ , McCoy thought. _Briscoe and Wheeler both have enough to deal with right now without being at cross-purposes with each other._

"Lennie," McCoy said. "Has anyone told Liz Olivet?"

Briscoe nodded. "I did," he said. "Mike's captain called his girlfriend. I called Liz."

McCoy felt his stomach turn over. "She shouldn't have heard on the phone," he said. _There's news no-one should hear on the phone._

_"Jack, it's Adam. Pick up the phone. There's been an accident."_

_I couldn't have made that call,_ he thought _. I couldn't have said "Liz, there's been a shooting. It's Mike."_

" _You need to come to the hospital."_

He could hear Adam's voice as clear as ever, crackling a little on the answering machine tape, heavy with grief. _"Jack. Pick up the phone. Goddamn it Jack, pick up the phone!"_

And him, standing by the phone, fingers on the receiver, unable to will himself to lift it from the cradle. Listening to the voice on the answering machine _Pick up the goddamn phone you have to come to the hospital it's Claire it's Claire there's been an accident it's Claire pick up the phone you have to come to the hospital it's Claire._

But it wasn't real, until he picked up the phone, until he spoke to Adam, until the circuit was complete, it wasn't real. It was just a message on an answering machine.

_It's Claire._

_To hell with her, anyway._

Just a drunken nightmare.

_It's Claire._

"There's news no-one should hear on the radio, either," Briscoe said, his voice breaking into McCoy's thoughts.

McCoy nodded reluctantly. 'What did she say?"

"She asked if I was alright," Briscoe said, with a little shrug and a half-smile that said _Just like Liz._ "She asked if Wheeler was hurt. And she thanked me for calling."

_Thanks_. It was an oddity of modern society, this reflex gratitude for everything, even for things you didn't want, that you'd give anything not to have had. _Thanks_ , doctor, for telling me I have cancer. _Thanks_ for telling me my dear friend has been shot in the chest.

_Thank you_ , Claire's mother had said when the doctor told her there was no hope. _Thank you, doctor._

_Pick up the phone. There's been an accident. It's Claire. You need to come to the hospital, Jack._

_I hate this hospital,_ McCoy thought, and suddenly needed to be out of there.

"Okay," he said to Briscoe. "I need to be back at the office. We came by because – "

"I know," Briscoe said. "I appreciate it. Mike will, too."

"Regan?" McCoy said, and Regan turned from her conversation with Green. "We need to get moving."

She nodded, touched Green's arm in farewell and gave Briscoe a quick hug, and then followed McCoy back to the elevator.

He pressed the call button, pressed it again. "Come on, dammit!"

"Where are we going?" Regan asked quietly.

"No-damn-where at the moment," McCoy snapped, pressing the button again. The lift doors opened and he moved to go through them, almost walking into the tired-looking blonde woman getting off. Startled, she gave a little gasp, and McCoy saw that her eyes were red-rimmed and her nose pink. "I'm sorry," he said. _She looks vaguely familiar._

"That's okay," she said. "That's okay."

He stepped back to let her off, still trying to work out why she looked familiar, and she edged past him with a watery smile. As McCoy and Regan got onto the elevator, McCoy saw the blonde looking up and down the corridor.

"Are you looking for the waiting room?" McCoy asked her.

"Yes," she said, and then McCoy knew why she looked familiar. _Mike Logan's girlfriend._

He stepped back out of the elevator. "You're – I'm sorry, I don't know your name – you're Mike Logan's friend."

She nodded, eyes filling with tears again. "Gina Lowe. I'm Gina Lowe."

"I'm Jack McCoy, Ms Lowe," McCoy said. "I work with Mike. The waiting room is just down there."

"Is he okay?" Gina asked, and then clapped her hand over her mouth, lips trembling. A single sob shook her.

"He's in surgery," McCoy told her. He put his hands on her shoulders. "It's too early for any news."

"How bad – was he – how bad was it?" Gina asked. She took a deep breath and composed herself a little. "I'm a nurse, Mr. McCoy. How bad was it?"

"He was shot twice in the chest," McCoy said. _No point sugar-coating it._ "I'm told he lost a lot of blood at the scene."

"Oh, god," Gina said. Her lips quivered again and she looked down.

"He's tough," McCoy told her. He tried to sound confident, but he remembered Claire's mother sitting in the waiting room outside high dependency care, saying _She'll come round. She's strong._

"Yeah," Gina said, wiping her eyes. "Sure." She gave him a watery smile. "I hafta go down there now."

"Yeah," McCoy said. He stepped aside and with another shaky smile Gina headed down the hall.

McCoy got back into the elevator that Regan had been holding. She let go of the door and it closed.

"Going down," she said with an effort at lightness.

"Yes," McCoy said absently. "Going down."

* * *

.oOo.


	7. Conference Calls

_Office of EADA Jack McCoy_

_One Hogan Place_

_4.20 pm Thursday 14 December 2006_

* * *

Jack McCoy had barely had time to take off his coat before the side door to his office banged open and Arthur Branch stormed through.

"Before you start, Arthur," McCoy said, "Ms Markham has a counseling session scheduled with Skoda tomorrow morning."

"Well that's just dandy," Branch said. "That's what I'll tell the TV channels, will I, now that your ADA's brain-snap is posted on You Hoo for the world to see and download?"

_You Hoo?_ McCoy puzzled, and then light dawned. "You mean You Tube?"

"I mean, what in _hell_ am I supposed to tell the mayor?" Branch said. "Let alone the fact that it's a matter of time before one of these reporters puts two and two together and comes up with the fact that this is the same ADA suspended for assaulting a suspect?"

"No charges were laid," McCoy shot back, forgetting how angry he himself had been at Regan.

"You pulled a fast one to make sure it happened that way!" Branch said. "And now you're telling me that your assistant whaling on a child in the middle of a crime scene is something I should overlook?"

"You know Ms Markham used to be a police officer who was injured in the line," McCoy said. "The kid on the scene made like he was shooting at us. It gave _me_ a shock. What would do you think it did to a cop who took a bullet?"

Branch paused. "I guess the reporters might like that angle. She was shot, found another way to protect and serve, saw another cop gunned down and then, faced with a punk who made a joke of the shooting … " His voice trailed away and he frowned, thinking. "I can sell that to the press. It won't do anything about the coverage on Who Tube, but if we can keep it off the television it won't do any harm."

"To Ms Markham or to your prospects for re-election?" McCoy asked.

"You and Miss Markham _both_ might like to bear in mind that they are very much one and the same," Branch warned. "I appreciate what you both did getting a plea from Timmy McMillan, but remember – it's not _my_ job to take a political bullet for my staff. It's the other way around."

"Understood," McCoy said.

"Alright," Branch said. "So what do you have on this shooting?"

"Mike Logan's still in surgery," McCoy said.

"I take it you want to hold on to this one," Branch said.

"I do. Mike Logan and I didn't always see eye-to-eye, but he's a good cop – a good man. I'd like to see whoever did this – I'd like to see them strapped to a gurney. More realistically, I'd like to see them given life without the _possibility_ of parole."

"I'm with you on that. Do what you need to," Branch said. He turned towards the door, but turned back before he got there. "And Jack – tell your assistant to remember that there's only so much embarrassment this office will tolerate."

"Maybe if you're so concerned about embarrassment," McCoy said, "You should let me manage my staff." At Branch's look of surprise, McCoy elaborated: "I left Ms Markham behind this afternoon for a reason."

"You told me two weeks ago she was holding up just fine," Branch said. "Now she needs the kid-glove treatment? The DAs office isn't a group therapy session. If Miss Markham can't cope with this workplace, she might need to find somewhere else to practice law. Tell her – no, don't worry. _I'll_ tell her."

McCoy watched Branch stride down the corridor and stop at Regan Markham's office door. A moment later Regan was following him back down the corridor to Branch's own office.

The door closed behind them.

_Nothing I can do,_ McCoy thought. He dropped into his chair and pulled the stack of files on his blotter closer to him. _Time and tide and the New York court system wait for no man_. _Not for me, not for Arthur Branch._

_Not even for Mike Logan._

He kept one eye on Branch's office door. He was three-quarters of his way through his review of the depositions on the Whitford case when the door opened and Regan came out. Face pale and set, she closed the door carefully behind her, and walked off down the hall to her own office. McCoy watched her until she disappeared through the door, but she never looked up.

* * *

.oOo.


	8. Visiting Hours

_Mercy General_

_6 pm Thursday 14 December 2006_

* * *

Megan Wheeler had the door of the blue-and-white open before the car had even come to a stop. She stumbled a little as she scrambled out, got her feet under her and ran through the ambulance bay to the doors of the ER.

The waiting room was the usual zoo. Wheeler ignored the patients waiting in chairs and shoved her way to the front of the queue at the nurses' station.

"Hey!" an old guy said, indignant.

Wheeler shoved her badge in his face. "Shut the fuck up," she said, and to the nurse on the other side of the glass, "Detective Mike Logan. Where is he?"

"That cop who got shot?"

"Yeah," Wheeler said. "My _partner_ , who got shot."

"Oh, I'm sorry," the nurse said. "He's up in surgery."

"Where?" Wheeler asked.

"Fourth floor," the nurse said.

Wheeler turned and ran.

She waited three seconds for the elevator and gave up, turning for the stairs. Usually four flights would have had her panting but tonight she barely noticed.

She looked left, looked right, saw the sign for the surgery waiting room and ran again.

Wheeler'd met Lennie Briscoe a few times with Mike, drinks after work, and she knew what he looked like, but the sight of him still surprised her, sitting in the surgery waiting room, directly under the sign that advised visitors to turn off their mobiles.

He sat very straight, knees slightly apart, hands clasped in his lap. He looked out of place, someone from the real world here in this nightmare. He looked very old.

"How is he?" Wheeler demanded.

When Briscoe didn't answer straight away panic seized her.

"Lennie, Lennie," she gasped, "how is he? How – "

Briscoe seemed to notice her for the first time. "Hey, Megan," he said, and then, concerned, got up. "Hey, hey," he said. "He's still holding his own, Megan, he's hanging in there."

"Oh-god-oh-thank-god," Wheeler blurted, and burst into tears.

"Hey, kiddo, now come on," Briscoe said soothingly, putting his arms around her. "Nothing to cry about, honey, he's hanging in there."

If there had been anyone else there she knew Wheeler would have been humiliated, but somehow wrapped in Lennie Briscoe's faintly tobacco-scented embrace she felt nothing but comforted.

"Hey, honey, he's a tough kid, he's gonna be fine," Briscoe said. Wheeler thought maybe he needed to hear it as much as she did. She pulled herself together and stood up straight.

"Sure he will be, sure he will, Lennie," she said. She patted his arm. "He's tough as nails, Mike is."

"Are you Mike's partner?" a woman's voice said.

Wheeler turned and saw a blonde woman, pretty but worn-looking, who looked to be in her mid-forties. "Yes," she said. "And you are - "

"I'm a friend," the woman said. "Gina Lowe."

"He's never mentioned you," Wheeler said. Gina looked warm and soft, the kind of woman who'd cook tuna casserole for her cop boyfriend, and she made Wheeler feel hard-edged and immature.

"We kinda broke up for a while," Gina said, and Wheeler felt immediately ashamed of herself for being jealous of this woman, whoever she was, and her relationship with Mike and the fact that she seemed to be exactly everything Mike Logan would look for in a girlfriend. _It's not like you'd want him if he offered_ , she reminded herself.

That was true – but Mike meant more to her than anyone else in her life these days. He was the most important person in her life. Wheeler wanted to be the most important person in his.

_You got no romance, so he can't either? Nice, Megan, real classy_.

"It's nice to meet you, Gina," she said, forcing herself to smile warmly. "I'm Megan. Megan Wheeler." She held out her hand and Gina took it.

"You were there, weren't you?" Gina asked. "When he – when he got shot, you were there?"

"Yeah," Wheeler admitted. "He got – he was hit – he was right beside me. When. He was right next to me." She felt herself begin to tear up again and took a deep breath. _You are sitting at the grown-up table. Make a choice._ "But he's going to pull through this and we're going to get the son-of-a-bitch who did it."

"I know you are," Briscoe said. "Mike always says you have good instincts."

"He does?" Wheeler said. The only time she'd ever heard Mike mention her instincts was to tell her she'd had them surgically removed and replaced with a book of regulations.

"That and that you're a pain in the ass," Briscoe said, and shrugged. Wheeler surprised herself with a gasp of laughter.

She looked over at Gina Lowe, who had sat back down and was studying her hands folded in her lap.

Wheeler tried to come up with something to say. Nothing that came to mind seemed either tactful or appropriate. _So are you boning my partner?_ No. Maybe _so, for how long have you been boning my partner?_

_I'm no good with the relatives_ , Wheeler thought. _Logan is good with the relatives. Logan would know what to say to_ _ **my**_ _girlfriend – or friend – or whatever – if I took a couple in the chest. But me – I'm no good with the living._

"Hey, Wheeler," a familiar voice said behind her. Wheeler turned and saw Goren and Eames.

"Any news?" Eames asked.

"Still in surgery," Wheeler said.

Goren turned to Gina. "Hey, Gina," he said. "How are you?"

"I'm okay," Gina said, and tried to smile.

Wheeler saw Goren and Eames exchange a glance – a twitch of her lips, a quirk of his eyebrow, and Wheeler could tell they had crammed as much into that glance as most people would take a whole conversation to convey. _Partners_.

She didn't have that with Logan. _Not yet._

_Maybe now not ever._

Goren sat down beside Gina and put his hand on her knee. "Mike's gonna be fine, Gina," he said. "You just watch him."

"Excuse me," Wheeler said, barely knowing what she was saying. "I'm gonna get a coffee or something."

She turned away blindly and headed for the door.

* * *

Goren watched Wheeler go and then turned back to Eames, a whole interrogation worth of questions in his eyes. Eames tilted her head, raised an eyebrow. _I know. Wait and see_.

"Gina, can we get you anything?" she asked Mike's on-again, off-again girlfriend. "Coffee, something to eat?"

"No," Gina said. "No, I'm good. I'm just gonna wait here. With Lennie. We'll just wait here."

"Okay," Eames said. She caught her partner's eye, lifted her chin a little, and Goren gave a tiny nod. "Gina, Bobby and I have some work to do. But here's my card, okay? If you need anything – or if Lennie does, or anyone else here – you call me. You hear? Day or night. Call me."

"I will," Gina said, and then, taking Eames by surprise, she threw her arms around the detective, hugging her hard. Eames returned the embrace, feeling Gina trembling. "Thanks you, Detective Eames," Gina said tearfully.

"You call me Alex," Eames instructed. "And you _call_ me, understand? I'm not kidding."

"Okay," Gina said. "Okay."

"Take care of yourself, Lennie," Eames said to Briscoe, and the old cop nodded.

"Get this bastard, will you?" he said.

"Oh, we will," Goren said, for once somber and serious, wearing the face Eames thought of as _Grown-up Bobby_.

Grown-up Bobby stuck around until the two of them were in the lift on their way back to the street.

"Why do _you_ think she dumped him?" Goren asked Eames.

"Who? Gina?"

"Yeah," Goren said.

'Why do you assume she dumped him? Maybe he dumped her."

"She wouldn't be here if that was the case," Goren said. "Jilted women don't run to the side of the man who did them wrong."

"Unless she's carrying a torch and she thinks she can nurse him back to health and earn his undying love and gratitude," Eames said.

Goren looked at her, head cocked, a slow smile pulling at his lips. "There's a sour view of human nature," he said.

Eames shrugged, grinning back at him. "Only one I got. Half price, today only. Anyway, why do you care who dumped who? You planning on asking Gina out?"

"Mike got hit hard. He might not make it. If he does, I'd like to know who he has to lean on." Goren shrugged. "We going back to the scene?"

"And do what? Help with the canvass?"

"No," Goren said. "No. I just – there's something there, Eames. I can't quite get hold of it. It's – on the tip of my tongue."

Eames tipped back her head to look up at him. "Okay," she said. "You've got a hunch. Let's go play your hunch."

He gave her a quick, grateful smile. "Thanks."

"Yeah," Eames said dryly. "Don't mention it."

Two hours later, chilled to the bone and with her feet aching, Eames was rethinking that. _Bobby Goren and his fucking hunches,_ she thought, but without any real exasperation, watching Goren pace down the street for the umpteenth time.

"Bobby," she said at last. "I'm freezing my tits off here."

He held his finger to his lips and Eames shut up. She stamped her feet to try and warm them and leaned her head back to look up at the buildings around them.

"Okay," Goren said. "Okay. Here we are. Here's Mike. I'm Mike. And you're Wheeler."

"And I'm here. And we're walking … this way?"

"Yeah, but forget that. That's a – it's a variable, okay? Because how sure are you, a hundred percent sure, that Wheeler got it perfectly right? That they were walking exactly straight, right here?"

"Okay. So – ?"

"Mike ended up lying here. He got hit twice and he went straight down. So he was standing here. If he was walking to the car he was facing this way. But he and Wheeler were on their way back to the car from talking to a witness. She was on the outside, here. No – that's it. Stand like that. And they were just – what – we're assuming, walking side by side?"

"Seems reasonable," Eames said.

"Eames, let's take a walk," Goren said. He took a step forward and gestured to her to follow. "Come on."

Puzzled, she obeyed. They strolled side by side down the sidewalk. "You see, I'm thinking about Mike Logan," Goren said. "And Wheeler. And watching them in the squad. He's got a long stride. You notice? He takes these big steps." Goren made long, exaggerated strides. "Biiig steps." He was a few feet ahead of her now.

Eames hurried to catch up. "Big steps, okay, so?"

"Pardon?" Goren said.

Eames hurried a little more and raised her voice. "I said – "

Goren turned to hear her, cocking his head, taking a backwards step. "It's hard to hear someone when you're walking ahead of them. If you take big steps. You have to – "

"You have to _turn_ ," Eames said.

"You have to turn. That's what I couldn't remember. Seeing him, with Wheeler. Walking. Turning. And if you're shot, when you're turning – "

"The bullets could have come from somewhere else."

"From up there," Goren said. "And any missed shots would be up there, not over where forensics are working."

"I'll tell them," Eames said.

"Okay, but here's another thing," Goren said. "How's your marksmanship?"

"I'm a pretty good shot," Eames said.

"Harder or easier to shoot someone moving unpredictably?"

"Harder," Eames said. She didn't add _obviously_. She'd learnt not to get impatient with Goren's elliptical approaches to what he really wanted to say.

"So why shoot Mike Logan and not Megan Wheeler?" Goren asked. "She'd be easier to hit, wouldn't she?"

"She would," Eames said. "But – _she wasn't the target_. Was she?"

"I don't think so," Goren said. "I don't think this was about killing a cop. I think this was about killing Mike Logan."

"You look pleased," Eames said. "Feel that bull's-eye fading from your back?"

Goren gave a huff of laughter. "Not that," he said. "But Lieutenant Van Buren doesn't want us primary on this case. Fine. Let _whoever_ work the cop-killer sniper angle. We'll work Mike Logan's attempted murder."

"How do we do that?" Eames asked.

"We'll start with his case files," Goren said.

"Lieutenant Van Buren assigned those to detectives from her own squad," Eames pointed out.

"Open files, Eames," Goren said with a sly smile. " _Open_ files."

"You think this is down to somebody from the cold cases?" Eames scoffed. "Why now? Why here, why this way?"

"I don't know," Goren admitted. "But I _do_ know that when we find out – we'll find the shooter."

* * *

.oOo.


	9. Competency Hearing

_Office of EADA Jack McCoy_

_One Hogan Place_

_11\. 45 am Friday December 15_ _th_ _2006_

* * *

Knuckles rapping sharply on her door made Regan jump. She put her finger on the sentence she was up to in the law report before she looked up.

Jack McCoy was leaning against her door frame, jacket off and tie askew, hair falling into his eyes. _Not even midday_ , Regan thought, _and already the senior prosecutor is giving way to the shanty Irish street-fighter._ As always, the sight of her boss at his disheveled best made her smile. "Jack," she said.

"Are you caught up?" McCoy asked, returning her smile.

"With Whitford?" Regan asked.

"Yeah," McCoy said. "With Whitford. And with Logan's shooting."

"Is there news on Detective Logan?" Regan asked.

"He's out of surgery. Still critical. High dependency care."

Regan nodded, absorbing the news. "And the case?"

"No location on the shooter. No witnesses. I hear from Van Buren that they're hopeful on the ballistics and I hear also that Goren and Eames are working on the idea that whoever did it was aiming for Mike in particular. Maybe they'll turn something up."

"I hope so," Regan said, and meant it.

"It'll be a while before we see it on our desks," McCoy said. "And meanwhile, what is on our desks is Whitford. You caught up?"

Regan nodded. "We have motive problems, don't we? No infidelity, no jealousy, no – no husband-wife stuff that might have made him kill her."

"Briscoe and Green were sure he did it when they collared him ," McCoy said.

"The circumstantial case is solid," Regan said. "The forensics are convincing. All that's missing is a teetotal nun with 20-20 vision who actually witnessed the killing."

"And a motive," McCoy said.

"And a motive."

"What are you looking up there?" McCoy asked with a gesture towards the law report on Regan's desk.

"It's this civil suit from the nineties," Regan said. " _Linton v Conlon._ Came up in my bar exam. It's been stuck in my head since we started Whitford. I'm trying to see why."

" _Linton v Conlon_. That's a medical malpractice case," McCoy said. "If my memory can be trusted."

Regan snorted. "Lennie Briscoe knows every address on every street or lane in New York city – and you know every nuance of every reported case in New York state. It _is_ medical malpractice. Ms Linton sued her doctor, Dr Conlon, for prescribing the wrong dose of medication to her. He fought it. She won. He paid big-time – fifteen million."

"She was badly hurt?" McCoy asked.

"He was badly _drunk_ when he wrote the wrong medication on the prescribing pad. That's what got the case on the bar exam – it was a punitive damages question."

"And what does it have to do with Whitford?" McCoy asked.

Regan sighed. "I don't know. I honestly don't know. Maybe – maybe it's just stuck in my head for no reason. Or a stupid reason. Maybe the nurse had the same first name as Eileen Whitford."

McCoy shook his head. "Or maybe there's some connection. Trust your instincts. But don't stay bound up in the law reports. Poke around a little."

"Okay," Regan said uncertainly. She wanted to ask McCoy what he meant by _poke around_ but she didn't want to admit that she didn't know. "Do you want me catching from Complaints this weekend?"

"No. Concentrate on Donald Whitford," McCoy said. "We've arrested and charged an apparently loving family man and dedicated pediatrician with the murder of his apparently devoted wife. This conviction is not just about justice for Eileen Whitford. It's about the reputation of the office as well."

"You mean the reputation of Arthur Branch," Regan said.

"Arthur has reminded me more than once in recent months that making him look good is in my job description," McCoy said. "And in yours. How'd it go with Skoda?"

"Fine," Regan said, off balance. "Fine. He – "

" _So I know you took a bullet in the line," Emil Skoda says. He's very still, a spare contained man with watchful dark eyes. "Jack told me you got shot in the arm."_

_Regan looks at him, trying not to be intimidated. "He told you that?"_

_Skoda looks back at her. Regan doesn't like it. "Yeah. Interesting, that you'd share what's eating you with Jack McCoy."_

" _There's nothing_ _ **eating**_ _me," Regan says. "I just – I saw the kid out of the corner of my eye and it – startled me."_

" _The footage is a YouTube favorite across the city," Skoda says. "You know, Detective Green had just as much reason to be startled. You went for the kid – he went after you."_

" _Yeah, not reasons like me," Regan says tightly._

" _What makes your reasons special?" Skoda says._

_Regan lifts her chin and tries to stare him down, refusing to give in to the skepticism she's sure she can hear in his voice. Skoda's gaze is very steady._

_Regan looks down first._

"It went fine," Regan said again.

"Good," McCoy said. He hung his head and looked down at his feet, and then back up at Regan through the shock of hair that fell over his forehead. "Regan – I can't cover for you again. With Arthur. You have to get your head straight."

"My head _is_ straight," Regan said.

"Don't bullshit me," McCoy snapped, his eyes bright with anger. "I understand you've had a rough time, but I'm through making excuses for you. This goes back _before_ Carthage, _before_ Walters. I need a second chair I can rely on, not one I have to babysit. So stop _lying_ to me and stop _lying_ to yourself and _get_ your head _straight_."

" _You were suspended from the DAs office after a complaint was lodged – an assault?" Skoda asks._

" _I lost my temper," Regan says. "I was wrong. But I was cleared."_

" _You lost your temper today, too. Do you lose your temper a lot?" Skoda asks._

" _No more than average," Regan counters._

" _What does that mean?" Skoda says._

" _You're the psychiatrist. You tell me."_

" _Do you lose your temper more than you used to?"_

_Regan is silent a long moment. "I never used to lose my temper at all," she says at last._

" _Before you got shot." Skoda says. "In the_ _ **elbow**_ _." Regan thinks he sounds incredulous._

" _I'm not going to talk about it."_

" _You're going to talk about it," Skoda says. "Oh, not today. Not to me. But sooner or later you're either going to sit down in a room like this and talk about it with someone like me. Or someone will cut you off in traffic and you'll find yourself holding a gun to their head while you tell_ _ **them**_ _about it."_

" _I don't carry a gun," Regan says instantly._

" _Really?" Skoda says. "Most ex-cops still carry. Unless of course they can't get a license. Unless they're 'ex' because of some kind of misconduct issue."_

_Regan says nothing._

" _Interesting," Skoda says. "Okay. Well, how about this? Either you can talk about it at a time and place of_ _ **your**_ _choosing or one day somebody will do something that sets you off and the next thing you know you'll have them down on the ground and you'll be pounding the crap out of them and it'll take somebody pulling you off them to stop you killing them. Oh, wait." He turns the screen of his computer around and Regan sees a frozen image of Ed Green hauling a madwoman out of a crowd of people, and then sees Jack McCoy in the background and recognizes the madwoman as herself. "You're telling me how fine you are," Skoda says evenly. "Does that woman look fine to you?"_

Regan blinked hard and looked down at the book on her desk. "I understand," she said quietly.

McCoy took a step into her office. "Look," he said more gently. "If you want to talk – "

"Everybody wants me to _talk_ ," Regan snapped. "Nobody wants to accept there's nothing to talk _about_."

"Go a full month without beating anyone up and I'll consider taking you at your word on that," McCoy retorted.

" _So if I don't play along with you I get pink-slipped by Jack McCoy?" Regan asks._

" _I have to write a report," Skoda says. "You might not be a cop, but you're a public servant. The DA's Office is responsible to you – and for you."_

" _And nobody likes to get sued," Regan says. "So you decide if I get sacked or not?"_

" _I don't want to get you sacked," Skoda says. "I would prefer to see you again. In a professional capacity. And maybe with a less adversarial affect."_

" _So you can fix me?" Regan asks. She means it to be sarcastic, isn't sure it comes out that way._

" _I can't make you all better," Skoda says. "But I can teach you some techniques. That will maybe enable you to keep your job and function in society without assault charges."_

" _To 'function in normal society?" Regan says. "Fuck you. Can I go now?"_

" _Yeah," Skoda says. "If you want. I'm always available if you want to – "_

_Regan doesn't hear the rest of the sentence as the door closes behind her._

"One month," Regan said, striving to make her tone light. "Done deal."

McCoy's assessing gaze didn't waver. "Last chance, Regan," he said.

* * *

.oOo.


	10. Grudge Match

_Major Case Squadroom_

_10 am Saturday 16 December 2006_

* * *

"That's the last of _these_ files," Eames said, tossing a folder onto a stack of similar files beside her. "And I can't see anything. It's starting to look like this is a grudge match."

Goren leaned back in his chair and frowned at the ceiling. "Why would you shoot Mike Logan?" he asked the air.

Eames snorted. "Is it a day with a 'Y' in it?"

Goren smiled. "I know you don't think he's all that bad," he said.

"Okay," Eames conceded. "Well, why would _you_ shoot Mike Logan?"

"If I thought he was going to arrest me," Goren said. "That's one reason to shoot a cop. But unless he's right next to you with handcuffs, it's a better reason to leave the city. "

"The other reason to shoot a cop is if he _did_ arrest you," Eames said. "Or someone you care about."

"Revenge," Goren said.

"Okay, but are we sure it's about Detective Logan and not Mike Logan?" Eames said. "I mean, Mike used to have a reputation, back in the old days."

"Yeah," Goren conceded, "But he's all grown up and discreet now, right? Plus – jilted woman, cheated husband – with a sniper rifle? How often do you see that?"

"Not a lot," Eames said. "Maybe somebody hired it done."

"Two to the chest – nah," Goren said. "A professional would have considered the possibility he was wearing a vest. A professional would have gone for the head shot. A professional would have been successful."

Eames shuffled through the papers on her desk until she found the page she was looking for. "One of the DA's investigators pulled this together," she said. "Recently released, originally collared by one Michael Logan. Want to take half?"

Goren twitched the page from her fingers and scanned it. "Let's let the eager beavers at the DA's Office run these guys down. None of them are the ones we're looking for."

"How can you tell?" Eames said skeptically.

"This shooting was done by an _amateur_ , but still, an amateur who could hit a target. You ever shoot with a rifle?"

"Some," Eames said.

"Could you hit me from the top of a building if I was walking to my car in the street?" Goren asked.

"Probably not," Eames said. "Not without a lot more practice."

"Yeah," Goren said. "And how much time on the range do you get to put in when you're in _jail_ , huh? No, these guys – not our guy. Our guy has been on the outside for a while. Maybe our guy never went inside."

Eames rolled her eyes. "Great. So _not_ someone from Mike's open cases, and not someone from his old cases either."

"Oh, no," Goren said, wagging his finger at her. "No, Eames, see, that's where you're wrong. It's someone from these cases. It's just not someone Mike sent to jail. It's someone _close_ to someone Mike sent to jail. Who would you kill for, Eames?" When she shrugged, he spun his chair around and leaned over his desk toward her. "Your nephew? Your sister? Your dad? Your husband?"

"I'd kill to protect them. I wouldn't kill you if you arrested them," Eames said.

"Yeah, but you're a _cop_. And also, sane. But let's take a less sane person. And let's take someone who doesn't have any faith in the criminal justice system. Who would you kill to avenge? Not your second cousin twice-removed."

Eames stared at him through narrowed eyes. "Are you so sure it's vengeance?" she asked.

"No," Goren said, startled. "Why?"

"I was looking at Mike's desk diary this morning – Ross asked me to make sure his appointments were covered. And – " She leaned back and snagged the book from it's resting place. "End of January, Mike's due in _court_."

Goren shrugged. "We're all due in court here and there, now and then."

"Okay," Eames conceded. "But how often do you testify in a retrial of a 1999 homicide?"

Goren tilted his head and looked curiously at her. "Retrial?"

"The People v Fraser," Eames read from Logan's datebook. "Although that's not what Mike has written here. He's written 'Leonie Fraser'."

"Leonie Fraser …" Goren said. "Oh, yeah, I _remember_ **that** one. Girl meets boy, right?"

"Girl meets boy, girl kills boy, girl meets new boy, boy finds murder weapon under couch cushions, boy arrests girl," Eames said.

"Wait a minute – _Mike Logan_ was the cop in that case?"

"When he was on Staten Island," Eames said. "Where Leonie Fraser lived. If I remember correctly, the DA's Office nearly lost the case over it, too. Fraser's defense argued an illegal search."

"Because he was on a _date_?" Goren said, amused.

"They argued he wasn't on a date. They argued he was undercover."

"And did the argument fly?"

"Not once the judge got a look at Mike Logan," Eames said dryly. Goren grinned. "Actually, Ron Carver prosecuted that one. And he's handling the retrial."

"Do you know what the grounds are?" Goren asked.

Eames shrugged. "I doubt it's because Ron Carver made a mistake," she said. "Point being – it's not an open case, and it's not a closed case. But there's something to gain by putting Mike Logan out of action, if your name is Leonie Fraser. Can't testify on the search, can't testify on the chain of custody – calls the murder weapon into question."

"Mmmm," Goren said. "Wonder if Leonie has any close relatives who can shoot a rifle?"

* * *

.oOo.


	11. Invitations

_10_ _th_ _Floor_

_One Hogan Place_

_Sunday 17th December 2006_

* * *

"Hello?" Megan Wheeler said. "Are you ADA Markham?"

The raw-boned blonde in the office looked up from her papers. "It's a fair cop," she said. "You got me. And you would be Detective Wheeler, right?"

"Yeah," Wheeler said.

"How's your partner doing?" Regan asked.

Wheeler shrugged. "Stronger. Not out of the woods. And they won't let me work his case. So here I am. Captain Ross said you needed some work done on a trial you got coming up? The DA's investigators can't get it done?"

"I'm sure they can," Regan said. "But you know when a cop goes down, the office frees up every ADA and investigator they can for the case. I don't want to draw on someone who might be working your partner's shooting. So help me out here. "

Wheeler thought about it, nodded. "Sure. Solo?"

"With Lennie Briscoe. Van Buren feels the same way about him on Detective Logan's case as your captain feels about you."

"Okay," Wheeler said. "What have you got?"

"Excuse me," a voice said behind Wheeler. "I'm sorry to interrupt."

Wheeler turned and found herself face to face with the most beautiful woman she'd seen all week: an icy blonde, a little taller than Wheeler herself, whose cool grey eyes held Wheeler's gaze with calm confidence.

"Hi," said the vision, holding out her hand. "Serena Southerlyn. I'm sorry to interrupt. I just need a moment with Regan."

"Hi," Wheeler said. She took Serena's hand. Did she imagine it, or did the other woman take a slightly sharper breath as their fingers touched? Wheeler met Serena's gaze, wondering if those clear grey eyes were a little darker than they had been a moment ago, knowing that her own cheeks were a little flushed. "Hi," she said again. "Megan Wheeler."

"Hi, Megan," Serena said, starting to smile.

"Hi," Wheeler repeated.

Regan cleared her throat. "What can I do for you, Serena?" she asked.

Serena slowly drew her fingers free of Wheeler's and took an envelope from her briefcase. "Tis the season, and so on," she said. "I'm having a Christmas party. I'd like it if you could come."

Regan took the envelope. "I – that's very kind of you," she said, and Wheeler thought she seemed disconcerted. "Thank you."

"Friday 22nd," Serena said. "Detective, why don't you come as well?"

"I – ah, sure," Wheeler said. "If I can. You know, sometimes the job – "

"I know," Serena said. "Believe me. I worked for Jack McCoy long enough to know that the demands of the justice system take priority over _any_ social engagements."

"You worked – you're a prosecutor?" Wheeler said, thinking _Beautiful_ _ **and**_ _smart._

"Used to be," Serena said. "I do public interest advocacy now. A lot of discrimination work. I hope your captain gives you the night off, Detective Wheeler."

"Me too," Wheeler said. She watched Serena head off down the hall and then turned back to Regan Markham.

Regan was holding out a post-it note. Wheeler took it. "What's this?"

"Serena's address," Regan said with a little smile that made Wheeler aware that she was completely transparent.

"Thanks," Wheeler said, feeling herself blush. She cleared her throat and tried to sound businesslike. "So, you have a case you need some work on?"

"Whitford," Regan said. "You heard of it?"

"Family man beats wife to death, stashes her in car, sets car on fire? Yeah. Not having been in Alaska for the last six weeks, I have heard of it."

"I need more background on the family. I need a _lot_ more background on the family."

"What's the problem?"

"No motive," Regan said. "I need a motive so Jack McCoy can sell this to the jury. Sex, money – find me a motive, detective." She picked a file off her desk and held it out.

Wheeler took it from her and flipped it open to see copies of the case files. "Find you a motive?" she said. "Consider it done."

* * *

.oOo.


	12. Reciprocal Discovery

_Office of EADA Jack McCoy_

_One Hogan Place_

_6 pm Monday 18_ _th_ _December 2006_

* * *

It had been raining hard all day, and now the weather looked set in for the night. The freezing rain hammered at the windows, blown almost horizontal by the gusting wind. McCoy wrote three more sentences of his closing argument, paused, and drew a line through the second.

"Hey, Jack," Regan said from the doorway.

McCoy looked up. She had obviously been caught in the rain. _Soaked to the skin would be an understatement_. The coat slung over her arm was dripping a steady stream of water and her suit and hair were hardly any drier.

"You need to buy an umbrella," McCoy said with a grin, putting down his pen.

"I did. Last seen heading towards the Hudson at thirty feet and fifteen miles per hour," Regan said. She took a step inside, then cast a glance at the water she was dripping on his carpet and stepped back to the doorway. "Listen, I have good news. You know how I had the _Linton v Conlon_ case stuck in my head?"

"Yes," McCoy said. "You work out why?"

"Wheeler did," Regan said. She pushed her sopping wet hair off her forehead. "Turns out Mrs. Whitford's sister's name was Emma Linton. And when Emma Linton died two years ago …"

"Eileen Whitford inherited?"

"Some of it," Regan said with triumph. With her hair plastered to her head and her face washed clean by the rain she looked different. Most women of McCoy's acquaintance, and it was a broad acquaintance, improved their appearance when they brushed their hair and put on makeup. In the office, Regan always looked as if she were wearing a disguise that didn't quite fit. Leaning against McCoy's doorframe with her unruly hair slicked down by the water, she was unadorned and exposed. There was a spare loveliness to the determined line of her jaw and the sharp hollows beneath her cheekbones, as if she were a sheriff in a shootout with bandits in a wild storm, or a ranger dragging calves from a flooded stream.

McCoy realized that Regan was waiting for him to say something, patiently standing in his doorway dripping water on the hallway floor.

"How did we not know about this?" he asked.

"The money was in the kids' accounts," Regan said. "But I went down to the bank, I waved a subpoena at the manager, and voila. We got _all_ the account statements."

"How much?"

"Two million four," Regan said with a triumphant grin. "Joint trust, mom and pop administer."

McCoy raised his eyebrows. "That's a _lot_ of motive."

"That's a real big plank in the gallows we're building," Regan said, and sneezed.

"Don't catch cold," McCoy said. "Go change."

"Into somebody who has spare clothes in their office?" Regan said.

"You don't? Jesus. Come in," McCoy said, taking the towel from his gym bag. "Here. Dry off. Give me your jacket."

"I'll drip on your carpet," Regan protested.

"The carpet will survive," McCoy told her.

Regan squelched into the room and obediently took off her jacket as instructed. McCoy hung it over the radiator as Regan began to squeeze water out of her hair with the towel. McCoy poured her a nip of scotch.

"Drink this," he said, holding out the glass.

Regan looked at the clock and raised her eyebrows.

"It's medicinal." McCoy told her. "Drink it."

Regan shrugged, and the shrug turned into a sudden violent shiver. Her ice-cold fingers brushed McCoy's as she took the drink and her teeth rattled on the glass as she sipped the scotch. "Come over here by the radiator," McCoy said. "And take off your shoes."

She did, leaning against the radiator beside him, barefoot, hair still dripping over her shoulders. _Hard to imagine how she could have gotten much wetter without actually going swimming in her clothes_ , McCoy thought, careful not to look too closely at her, although he could not help being aware of the long lean line of her legs as she leaned against the radiator or the –

_Dammit._ His imagination was more than equal to the task of completing the picture and his body responded unbidden. McCoy turned away, ostensibly to rearrange her jacket where it hung over the end of the radiator, and then sat back down in his desk chair.

Regan finished the scotch, and sneezed again.

"I think we got him, Jack," she said. McCoy tipped another inch of scotch into her glass and poured himself a drink as well.

"Here's to hunches," he said, and raised his glass to her. Regan ducked her head a little, embarrassed by the praise. "Learn to take a compliment, Regan," McCoy told her.

"Sure," Regan said, looking up with the trace of a smile. "If you promise to give me the chance to practice."

McCoy started to answer, but stopped as his phone began to ring.

* * *

Regan squeezed a little more water from her hair and sipped at her scotch as McCoy picked up his phone.

"Yes," he said, and then listened in silence for a moment. "I see. Yes. Thank you for the call."

He put the receiver back in the cradle firmly and precisely, then turned in his chair to look at her.

"What?" Regan said, trying to read his expression. _Pleased,_ she thought, _smug._ _Not bad news about Mike Logan, then._

"That was the governor at Attica," McCoy said. "There was a fight in the dinner line tonight. Phillip Watts was knifed. He's dead."

It took Regan a heartbeat to recognize the name. _Phillip Watts_. Even then it wasn't the man's face that leapt to mind – it was the face of the woman he'd murdered, Mary Firienze, sutures stitching her skull in a hospital bed, tube down her throat to keep her breathing – or juggling files as she hurried between courtrooms – or gagged with electrician's tape in crime scene photos –

She realized McCoy was grinning at her expectantly. _What does he expect? Gee, Jack, that's great? I guess you were right?_

He'd planned this – had told her as much – couldn't get a conviction for murder but had Watts sent into general population in jail after he'd testified against a mob boss.

_The bailiffs take Watts out. McCoy turns to Regan. "We got him," he says, and Regan can't tell whether the tightness in his voice is triumph or anger. "I told Mary's parents we'd make him pay. And the sonofabitch will."_

" _Three and a third," Regan says. She can see McCoy in her peripheral vision but all she can look at is her hands, with their blunt cut nails and stains from leaky ballpoints. "He pled to three and a third for murdering Mary to keep anyone from finding out he murdered her sister."_

" _You have to look at the big picture," McCoy says._

_Regan manages to look at him, although he is swimming out of focus with the unshed tears in her eyes. She wants to scream at him, she wants to burst out sobbing, she wants not to make a fool of herself here in the courtroom and she has no idea which will win out. "The big picture like we couldn't make the case without tricking him into a plea?"_

" _That's one big picture," McCoy admits. He puts his hand over Regan's on the bar table. "There's another. There's a contract out on Phillip Watts and he's going into general population in Sing Sing. You know, the State of New York won't let us strap Watts to a gurney anymore, even for a double homicide."_

" _But this is just as good?" Regan asks._

" _He'll never hurt another woman, Regan. He'll never leave prison. Mary's family will know her killer has got what he deserves."_

" _I don't know what's worse," Regan says. "Your faith in the efficiency of the criminal underclass or your lack of faith in the prison administration." She slides her hands from under his and starts pushing her papers into her briefcase._

" _Learn to take what you can get," McCoy advises her._

"Phillip Watts is dead?" Regan asked.

"If you want to drive up and see the body I'll happily approve the leave," McCoy said. He poured himself another drink and freshened Regan's glass, then raised his glass in another toast. "Here's to justice."

"Yeah," Regan said. McCoy narrowed his eyes.

"You don't sound all that enthusiastic," he said. "I didn't know you were against the death penalty."

"I'm not," Regan said. She took a solid belt of the scotch, the alcohol burning smooth down her throat. "I'm not pro-murder, either."

"Haven't we had this argument?" McCoy asked. He was smiling but his voice was sharp. Regan lowered her gaze to her drink and held her tongue. "Regan, if the law worked the way the legislature intended it to, we wouldn't be having this conversation. Watts would have got a conviction and the death penalty for the murder of Mary Firienze."

"Sure," Regan said. She hesitated over the next words, but finally plunged ahead. "So the legal system fails and you use the failure of the prison system to set it right?"

"Damn right," McCoy snapped. "Checks and balances, that's how it works. And it's _we_."

"Pardon?"

"It's _we_ , Regan. _We_ got that result in the Watts trial. I couldn't have done it without you."

Regan nodded, tossed back her scotch. "That's true," she said.

"Don't try to pretend it keeps you up at night!" McCoy said.

"No," Regan said. "It's _way_ down the list of what keeps me up at night." She held out her glass. Instead of taking it, as she'd expected, McCoy tipped another half-inch of scotch in the bottom and freshened his own drink.

Regan considered the amber liquid for a minute, already a little giddy from two drinks after a missed lunch. Then she shrugged. Her shirt was starting to dry but it still stuck damply to her back and Regan pulled it at it uncomfortably.

"I take it you're not expecting any more work from me this evening?" she said to McCoy, swirling the liquor in her glass.

"Three drinks puts you over the limit?" McCoy said.

"For driving _and_ writing up deposition prep," Regan said.

McCoy reached across his desk and fished a takeaway menu out of the papers piled by the computer. "Then we'd better get you something to eat."

He ordered with a speed that told of many previous calls to the same Chinese restaurant, and when he'd finished Regan said as much.

"You know the kind of hours we work here," McCoy said. "Fifteen hours days are more common than not. I've eaten more meals at his desk or in one of the conference rooms than in my own home." He tossed the menu back in the pile of others like it. "Or so my ex-wife said in the divorce petition."

"She divorced you because you worked too much?"

"That wasn't all of it,' McCoy admitted.

"Faults on both sides?" Regan said.

"Faults mostly on my side," McCoy said. Regan laughed. "What about you?" he asked, taking her by surprise.

Regan shook her head, trying to find the right words. "We drifted apart," she said at last, and tried to smile. "In law school, they taught us that 'drifted apart' was code to use in divorce applications. But that's really what it was like. Like the ship went down and we each grabbed a bit of flotsam, but we couldn't stay together in the waves. And we drifted apart."

"How did the good ship _US_ _Your Marriage_ go down?" McCoy asked.

The joke surprised her into a chuckle. "Neither the captain nor the first officer knew how to steer," she said drily, half-a-truth being better than none.

"And then he died," McCoy said.

"Yeah," Regan said. She finished her scotch, shook her head when McCoy reached for the bottle.

"And you've been alone since then?" McCoy asked.

"Not a lot of time for dating with the hours we work," Regan said. She turned to face away from him, partly to start drying the front of her shirt and shirt but mostly to hide her expression. Skoda's sardonic tone the previous Friday came back to her as he ticked off a list of symptoms -

" _Nightmares, insomnia, intrusive distressing recollections, dissociative flashbacks, physiological reactivity on exposure to cues of the traumatic event, persistent avoidance of stimuli associated with the trauma, irritability or outbursts of anger,_ _hyper vigilance , exaggerated startle response -"_

" _You sound like a fucking textbook," Regan says, cutting him off._

" _That's what it says in the textbook," Skoda says. " The DSM might as well just say 'PTSD' – c.f. Regan Markham'." He studies her. "Do you know what PTSD is?"_

" _I haven't got PTSD," Regan snaps._

" _How about the other symptoms? Do you find yourself avoiding intimacy, since you got shot?"_

" _How did you – "Regan starts, and bites the words back. "I don't think there's any reason to be discussing my sex life, doctor."_

" _Well, I meant_ _ **emotional**_ _intimacy, but okay," Skoda says._

"Not a lot of time," Regan repeated, holding her shirt away from her body to let the warm air from the radiator billow under it. She looked up to see McCoy watching her, and shrugged a little, remembering the words he'd said to her in the snow-bound town of Carthage. "It's a long way with no-one to share the driving," she said.

"It always is," McCoy said. He raised his eyebrows. "So should I call Ben Strickland and smooth things over?" he offered.

"No," Regan said.

"Really?' McCoy said. "Why not? Would it make it worse?"

"Yes, it would," Regan said with a grin, "but that's not why."

McCoy raised an eyebrow. "Then …?"

"Because I'm not an exhibit," Regan said calmly.

She hadn't put it into words before Carthage, the sense of unease that she'd felt at Strickland's eager almost morbid, interest in her injuries. It was a bad choice, between men who were grossed out by scars and men who were turned on by them, and one she'd almost been able to forget she faced. _Until I saw that eager look in Strickland's eyes._

_Could have been worse._ She'd tried just once to make it with a guy who wasn't a cop or an EMT – a civilian – and the memory of that disaster had put her off trying again. _Ever_. Oh, he'd said it was the alcohol – and they had both been pretty well lit up – but she'd seen the revulsion in his eyes.

So in the motel room she had said, _Someone else treated me like an exhibit_ , trying to explain to McCoy, and he'd looked down but not before Regan'd seen him suck in his lips a little, giving her a clear idea of what he thought of _that_. It wasn't a contempt specifically on her behalf: it was simply that Jack McCoy didn't think much of that kind of person.

"Because I'm not an exhibit," she said again. "Also – your boss getting you dates? _Not_ cool."

"You could ask him to Serena's Christmas party," McCoy suggested. "Let her know you're taken."

Regan snorted. "I'm old and ugly enough to take care of myself," she said, adding: "Besides, I'm not the one Serena's interested in." She was about to fill McCoy in when a knock at the door announced the arrival of their dinner.

Later, when they'd finished the food and Regan was making notes of withdrawals from the accounts of little Tommy Whitford and his elder sister Emma, she looked up to see McCoy watching her.

"What?" she asked, not sure how to read his expression.

"You dry off okay?" he asked.

"Sure," she said. "Sure, Jack. I'm fine."

* * *

.oOo.


	13. Boy Meets Girl

_Office of ADA Ron Carver_

_One Hogan Place_

_Tuesday 19 December 2006_

* * *

Eames led the way into Carver's office, Goren hanging back a little.

"Detective," Carver said. "How's Detective Logan?"

"He was a little stronger yesterday but this morning he had a little fever," Eames said. Carver looked concerned and she shrugged. "Doctors said it can happen sometimes. It's too early to panic."

"And Detective Wheeler?" Carver asked.

"Who knows?" Eames said. "She hasn't been into the hospital since the first day."

Carver looked past her to Goren hovering in the doorway. "Not everyone has an co-dependent partnership," he said. Goran gave Carver a perfunctory, humorless smile, which the prosecutor did not return.

_Fuckin' men_ , Eames thought. _Always trying to work out which of them is top dog._ For her part, she couldn't care less who in the room was the alpha male so long as everybody did their job and bad guys got locked up.

"Mr. Carver," she said. "We've got some questions about a case you tried seven years ago."

"Aren't we all a little busy for cold cases, detectives?" Carver said.

"This case isn't cold," Goren said. "It's going to retrial."

"Leonie Fraser," Carver said instantly. "What's your interest?"

"We were wondering what went wrong with the trial," Goren said.

"Nothing _went wrong_ ," Carver said coldly.

Eames put one hand behind her back and spread her fingers wide. _I'll handle this._ "Obviously not," she said, "since Fraser was convicted. But they've come up with some technicality?"

Carver sighed a little. "To be honest with you, detective, most of our case was built on a whole pyramid of technicalities. Fraser was the only suspect after the original detectives on the case found her boyfriend's blood and hair in the trunk of her car. Unfortunately they didn't get a warrant before popping the trunk. And since it was finding the blood in the car that led them to get a warrant for Fraser's home and the beauty salon where she worked, which was how they found the boyfriend's bearer bonds in Fraser's drawer. But …"

"Fruit of the poison tree," Eames said, nodding.

"There was nothing admissible. The ADA who caught the complaint in the pool kicked it up to me – I hadn't started in Major Case then, I was working in the Homicide Bureau – but I couldn't make it work. The boyfriend and the murder scene were both Manhattan, so Staten Island PD were only peripherally involved. They put some surveillance on Fraser but that seemed to be that." Carver spread his hands. "Then one Michael Logan met Leonie Fraser in a bar and Cupid's arrow hit its mark."

"Was she a looker?" Goren asked. "Like Gina?"

"I haven't met Gina," Carver said. "But Fraser was good looking, until you saw – a certain _hardness_ around the eyes." He shrugged. "Logan and Fraser hit it off, she asks him back to her place, she gives him a drink, she sits down on the couch and pats the cushion beside her … one thing leads to another."

"As they say in the classics," Eames said dryly.

"And in the heat of the moment, under the stresses of a certain repetitive movement, the couch cushions dislodge, and Michael Logan recognizes the metallic shape beneath him as a firearm."

"So what?" Goren said. "Lots of people have guns in their house. Some of them keep them under the couch cushions."

"Fraser didn't _shoot_ her boyfriend. She pistol whipped him. Most of the guns in houses around America don't have blood and brain matter on the handle. Logan saw it when he went to move the gun to a less potentially dangerous location. It rather cooled his ardor, as you might imagine. He asked Fraser about it and she spontaneously confessed." Carver smiled broadly at the recollection. "Her lawyers argued that it was an illegal search but I was able to persuade the judge that a man with his pants around his ankles can't be regarded as a police officer in the course of his professional duties. After that – it _all_ came in. The confession was a statement against penal interest, and then I pointed out that once we'd found the murder weapon in Fraser's house we would have searched her car, her place of business – on the principle of inevitable discovery, we bootstrapped everything into evidence. The case came together like the steel jaws of a trap."

"Lay down misere," Goren said, nodding. "So why the appeal?"

"Fraser's lawyer argued on appeal that Logan was treated as a private citizen for the purposes of the search but as the arresting officer for the purpose of the confession," Carver said. "We argued that that we would have got a conviction without the confession, what with the weapon, the forensics, the bearer bonds …" he shrugged. "Appellate Court disagreed, set it down for a new trial."

"And what's going to happen if Mike Logan can't testify?" Eames asked.

"That depends on whether or not I need to re-litigate the admissibility of the gun," Carver said. "If defense moves _in limine_ to exclude the gun and I don't have Mike Logan to attest to the circumstances of its discovery – "

"You end up with nothing," Goren said. "Everything that came _in_ on inevitable discovery is _out_ again."

"Fruit of the poison tree," Carver said, nodding. "Mike Logan getting shot was Leonie Fraser's lucky day."

"I don't think luck had anything to do with it," Eames said sourly.

* * *

.oOo.


	14. Office Traditions

_Office of EADA Jack McCoy_

_One Hogan Place_

_Tuesday 19 December 2006_

* * *

Arthur Branch flung open the side door of Jack McCoy's office without knocking. "How's the Logan investigation going?" he demanded.

McCoy looked up from his file. "Lieutenant Van Buren called this morning," he said. "You remember one of the bullets was a through-and-though? They found what they think is the slug this morning – it's at ballistics now."

"And you didn't tell me?" Branch said.

McCoy threw his pen down in exasperation. "There's no findings yet," he said. "I didn't think you'd want me to interrupt your tête-à-tête with the mayor to tell you that we don't know any more than we did yesterday!"

"Well, how long is it going to take in the lab?" Branch asked, then swung around as the other door opened and Regan Markham stuck her head through.

"Sorry, Jack," she said hastily. "I'll come back."

"No, come in," McCoy said. "I was just telling Arthur we can expect something from ballistics on Mike's shooting later today."

"Great," Regan said. McCoy thought he heard a note of sarcasm in her voice, was sure of it as she went on: "We can't find a way to keep the goddamn guns off the street, but once they've been used to blow holes in a police officer, we have the technology to identify which particular model was used. That's excellent law enforcement work. I'm sure the citizens of Manhattan feel much safer."

"The constitution has something to say about those 'goddamn guns'," Branch said.

"Too much, if you ask me," Regan retorted.

"Our founding fathers had the good sense to know a man needs the right to defend himself," Branch said. "That's why they gave us the right to bear arms."

"The Supreme Court has already recognized that the Second Amendment doesn't confer _absolute_ rights," McCoy said. "Chapter 44 of Title 18 limits the kinds of arms that can be borne. If the Legislature can decide that semi-automatic weapons are outside the scope of the Constitution, why not other kinds of guns not foreseen by the Founding Fathers?"

"When the Supreme Court decides _District of Columbia v. Heller_ , we'll see just what the Legislature can and can't decide when it comes to the Constitution," Branch said. "The murder rate in Washington has _skyrocketed_ since the handgun ban. The citizens of Washington no longer have means to defend themselves against criminals. Ask Miss Markham here. Where would she be if Anita Van Buren hadn't been armed that night Walters grabbed her?"

" _Lieutenant_ Van Buren was armed with her _police_ _issue_ service revolver," Regan said. "You can't use her as an argument for arming the populace. No-one is suggesting that the police force be disarmed. But the people shooting at them? If it was up to me I'd take that damn stupid amendment out of the constitution altogether."

"I'm surprised at you, Miss Markham," Arthur Branch said. "That's a very liberal attitude for a former police officer."

"I'm surprised you think so, Mr. Branch," Regan shot back heatedly. "Our inner cities are drowning in a tide of bullets and blood and it's police officers wading through it."

"If you make gun ownership a crime, only criminals will have guns," Branch said.

"I got shot – _twice_ – by guns that were bought perfectly legally," Regan said.

"You got shot _twice_?" McCoy asked. Regan gave him a quick sideways glance but didn't answer.

"Guns don't kill people," Branch said. "People kill people."

"You'll have to do better than bumper stickers to win this one, Arthur," McCoy said.

"It's on the bumper sticker because it's _true_ , Jack," Branch said.

"Mr. Branch," Regan said, "If I brought a gun to work, and shot you, you'd be dead. If I threw the bullets at you as hard as I could, the worst that you'd get is a nasty bruise."

"Very glib," Branch said. "But if you really wanted to kill me, you'd find another way."

"Oh come on, Arthur," McCoy said. "If that were the case our homicide rates wouldn't be three times higher than countries with better gun control."

"You like Canada so much, why not go and live there?" Branch retorted.

"My country right or wrong?" McCoy said. "Suggesting constitutional change is unpatriotic now? Somebody should have told Thomas Jefferson and Abraham Lincoln!"

"Not every whining liberal with an axe to grind is a great reformer, Jack," Branch said.

"And not every conservative using the flag to hide the bankruptcy of his ideas is a champion of freedom, Arthur!" McCoy snapped.

Branch gave him a long, level look. "Look behind you, Jack," he said. "You'll see the line."

He closed the door behind him almost hard enough to qualify as a slam.

Regan pursed her lips in a soundless whistle, eyebrows raised. "Good thing he can't afford to sack you," she said.

McCoy snorted. "One thing DAs all need, Regan," he said. "Convictions. Keep serving them up to Arthur for him to use in his re-election bids, and that will be all that matters."

"Well, in the interests of your continued employment, then, I'm going to get Wheeler to run down as much of Whitford's spending as we can – the money that's come from the kids' accounts?"

"Sure," McCoy said. "You don't need to ask my permission to do that, you know."

"Okay," Regan said almost shyly. "I'll go – I'll go get that started."

"Ahem," McCoy said as she turned to leave. He stood up and strolled out from behind his desk. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

Regan turned back, frowning. "No, I …" She flipped through the folders in her hands. "No? Am I?"

"Look up, Regan," McCoy said.

Regan tipped her head back and saw the bunch of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling. "Oh, you are _kidding_ me," she said.

"It's an office tradition!"

"It's a sexual harassment lawsuit waiting to happen, is what it is," Regan said.

"Would _you_ feel harassed if I kissed you?" McCoy asked with his best roguish smile, and was encouraged when Regan flushed.

"Try it and see," she said, with a hint of defiance.

Given confidence by her smile, he leaned closer. Deftly, she turned her head, presenting him with her cheek, and he accepted defeat with good grace, planting a chaste peck.

"Merry Christmas," he said.

"And to you," Regan said.

"Oh, I almost forgot. Abbie is having some people around for Christmas Eve. She asked me to invite you."

Regan looked nonplussed. "That's kind of her, but it's not necessary."

"You have plans?" McCoy asked. "Going home to see your family?"

"No plans," Regan said, and shrugged. "One more day of the year, I guess."

"Well, if you don't have a good excuse, Abbie Carmichael is not a woman to take no for an answer. So you may as well give in now."

"It's like the festival of former ADAs," Regan said. "Serena on Friday, Abbie on Sunday – will there be four writs of motion, and three depositions, to go with the two ADAs?"

"Four evidentiary hearings, three depositions, two ADAs and a motion _in li-mi-ne_ ," McCoy caroled, grinning.

"Don't give up your day job," Regan said dryly.

"No intention of it," McCoy said. "Go call Wheeler."

With one final glance at the mistletoe, Regan went.

* * *

.oOo.


	15. Keeping Busy

_Squadroom_

_2-7 Precinct_

_Wednesday 20 December 2006_

* * *

Lennie Briscoe sipped his coffee and flipped through the case file in front of him. _The only open case on my desk, and there's nothing I can do about it._ Everything about the file was complete – up to and including the arrest warrant – but the suspect had skipped town before they got to him and now it was up to police forces around the country to spot him and return him to Manhattan to face trial. He tossed it back on his desk.

"Hey, Lennie." Megan Wheeler's voice made him turn. "Howya doin?"

"Good, Megan," he said, turning. The slim red-head was holding a cardboard Starbucks coffee cup in one hand and a case file in the other. "And you?"

She shrugged. "Keeping busy," she said. Briscoe thought she looked tired, and pale beneath the freckles that dusted her face.

"You see Mike this morning?" Briscoe asked.

"Maybe later," Wheeler said. "So ADA Markham said you could double with me on a trial she's got coming up? Free some of the DA's investigators to work Mike's mur- – work the shooting?"

"My partner's on that, so sure," Briscoe said. "What you got?"

"It's the Whitford case," Wheeler said, perching on the edge of his desk and giving him the file. She sipped the coffee as Briscoe skimmed the first pages of the file. "We've got a good solid financial motive – money in the kids' trust funds that daddy couldn't spend without mommy's say so."

"He wanted to spend the money?"

"Looks like he's been _spending_ the money," Wheeler said. "Markham wants us to run down what on."

"Okay," Briscoe said. "Any ideas on where to start?"

Wheeler shrugged. "This is usually where Mike takes the lead, Lennie."

Briscoe leaned back in his chair and looked at her. "Got to fly on your own sometime, baby bird," he said.

"Baby _bird_?" Wheeler said, half disgusted, half outraged. With her face screwed up and her pixie cap of red hair a little disheveled by the wind, she did look a little bit like a nestling, and Briscoe chuckled.

"This money's been coming out of the account in cash," he said. "So how do we find out where a man spends cash? I mean, could be anywhere."

"It's tens of thousands," Wheeler objected. "Over a few months since the wife died. Who carries and spends tens of thousands in cash in _this_ city?"

"Here's his credit card statement," Briscoe said. "That was a hell of a solid subpoena Markham gave you. Looks like you walked away with the whole contents of the bank."

"Yeah," Wheeler said. "You know her?"

"Worked a couple of cases," Briscoe said. "She's stand-up." It was his highest praise, and from Wheeler's raised eyebrows, she knew it.

"Okay, so, the credit card statement," she said. "Any payments on that?"

"Actually, yes," Briscoe said. "Big ones. Big cash ones."

"This guy is a retard," Wheeler said. "How could he not think we'd find this?"

"Criminals," Briscoe said, and shrugged. "Most of our clearance rate is just adding two and two." He looked at the pages of the credit card statement again. "So, you want to split these up or work them together?"

"I don't know, Lennie," Wheeler said. "What do you think?"

Briscoe looked up at her. "It was your idea that he wasn't spending the cash as cash, Megan. It's your call."

Wheeler stared at him, and Briscoe could almost see the thoughts racing through her head. _Sure, I led her there_ , he thought, _but she made the connection on her own. She's gotta learn to trust her judgment sometime. Let it be now, with an old dog like me to make sure she doesn't run off the rails._

"Okay," Wheeler said. "I think we should work them together. Splitting up might be quicker but I think thorough is better on this case."

"Sure thing," Briscoe said. He got up and grabbed his coat. "One more thing, though – I'll drive."

"Done deal," Wheeler said. She led the way out of the squad room.

* * *

.oOo.


	16. Lessons

_Office of EADA Jack McCoy_

_One Hogan Place_

_7.00 pm Thursday 21 December 2006_

* * *

"Cross-examine _Whitford_?" Regan asked, hearing her voice go up in a mouse-like squeak. "Are you kidding?"

"You've got a handle on the financial details of the case," McCoy said.

"I can fill you in," Regan said. "You're a quick study."

McCoy laughed. "Flattery will usually get you anywhere," he said, "but in this case I think that the command of the detail you have will be pretty crucial. I think you should handle the cross."

"I can't do it," Regan said. She put her hands on her hips and paced back across McCoy's office. "This is going to be a big case. It's high profile." She reached the wall and turned on her heel. "It's not a case for training wheels. I've never cross-examined in trial before. You have to do it."

"First time for everything," McCoy said, leaning back in his chair. He swirled the scotch in his glass, watching her pace.

"The _Whitford_ trial is not a good first time for _anything_ ," Regan said.

"You've questioned witnesses at grand jury hearing. You've prepared and questioned prosecution witnesses at trial. This is just a little bit further."

"It's a _lot_ further. It's the _Brooklyn Bridge_ further. It's the _Grand Canyon_ further." Regan could hear her own voice getting shriller. She stopped and turned her back to McCoy, taking a few deep breaths. When she turned back he was still watching her with lazy amusement. "Jack – "

"Gotta start somewhere, Regan," he said.

"Somewhere a little less _high profile_ ," Regan said.

"You'll be fine," McCoy said. He set his glass down on his desk. "Pretend I'm Whitford. What do you ask me?"

"Why did you kill your wife?" Regan asked promptly.

McCoy laughed. "What do you ask me _in cross_. Think."

Regan turned in a small circle, hands still on her hips, thinking. _Come on, come on_ , she told herself. _Think. Think._

"Remember," McCoy said, "it's like an police interview. Find the weakness. Exploit it."

"Dr Whitford, how long were you married for?" she asked.

McCoy picked up the Whitford file from his desk and flipped it open. "Fifteen years," he said.

"And how long ago did she inherit – "

"No," McCoy said. "Lead up to it. Surprise him. Put him off balance. Ask a few more questions about their married life."

"Okay," Regan said. She took a deep breath. "Fifteen years, Dr Whitford. And you have how many children?"

"Two," McCoy said.

"You had it tough in the early years of your marriage, didn't you," Regan said.

"No tougher than a lot of people," McCoy countered.

"Two kids in two years in a three room apartment. That's tougher than a lot of people have it," Regan said.

"We got by," McCoy said.

"And then after all those years of study, you got your medical degree," Regan said, and then stopped. "Sorry, Jack, where is the jury? Over here?" She pointed towards the coat rack.

"Don't worry about the jury," McCoy said.

"Don't worry about the jury?" Regan said.

"Not on cross." McCoy leapt to his feet and grabbed the remote control for the TV in the corner. He turned it on to a news channel and the nasal tones of a reporter filled the room, nattering about a three-car pile up down-town. "Now go."

"I – ah – Dr Whitford, after all those years of study – " The flickering TV and the chatter of the reporter threw Regan off balance. "After all those – "

"Block it out, Regan," McCoy said. "Block out the jury. The judge. Concentrate on the witness."

"But _you_ always worry about the jury," Regan objected. "You always – "

"On direct. During opening statements. During closing. But not on cross-examination."

"Okay," Regan said. She took a deep breath. "Okay. Do-over. Dr Whitford. How long ago did you marry your wife?"

"We got married in 2001," McCoy said.

"And you have two children, is that right?" The flickering TV in the corner of her vision drew her eye but Regan forced herself to ignore it, gaze fixed on McCoy.

"Yes," McCoy said.

"Emma and Tommy," Regan said.

"Yes," McCoy said again.

"It can't have been easy," Regan said conversationally. She spoke right through the TV news reporter introducing the weather. "Two kids. Small apartment. Did you ever wish you were better off?"

"Who doesn't?"

"What was it like when your wife inherited all that money?" Regan asked.

"Good," McCoy said. "Good. But your focus needs to be solid." He reached across the desk and flicked on his radio, adding an NPR announcer's voice to the TV reporter. "Go."

"Dr Whitford. After all those – " Regan faltered. She took a breath and tried again. "After all those years struggling, did you think you deserved better?"

"No," McCoy said. "That's too provocative."

"I can't! I can't do this!"

"Yes you can," McCoy said. He got up and came around the desk, facing her. "Block it out."

"I don't have to cross examine with the TV and the radio going," Regan objected.

"If we were a big law firm with lots of money," McCoy said, "you could practice this with actors and a jury carefully selected to match the demographic of the jury we'll have at trial. And you could learn to ignore a judge farting on the bench and jurors scratching their balls in the middle of your best questions. But we aren't." He took a step forward until he was very close to her, face to face. "We're the DA's Office. No bells and whistles. So you have me and the TV and the radio. Focus. Block it all out. Make the witness block it out. Make the witness forget there's anything in the room but you, and him."

"Like a police interview," Regan said.

"Everybody has a weakness. Uncover Whitford's."

Regan took a deep breath. What he was saying made sense. _Everybody has a weakness_. Some people wanted to be understood. Some people wanted to justify their actions. Some people wanted to be the smartest person in the room. Some people wanted to be loved. _Everybody has a weakness. Everybody has a way in._

"Dr Whitford," she said, took a deep breath and tried again. "Dr Whitford." She looked down at her feet and then raised her head and looked McCoy right in the eye. "You were married a long time, Dr Whitford, weren't you?"

"Fifteen years," McCoy said.

"Fifteen years. And for a lot of those years, it was a struggle, wasn't it?"

"We did okay."

"Two kids in two years in a three room apartment. I admire you, Dr Whitford." Regan gave a little self-deprecating laugh. "That would have driven me crazy. It can't have been easy."

"It wasn't," McCoy admitted. "But we got by."

"And then – then you got your medical degree. Things must have started to look up." Regan paused, then leaned a little closer to McCoy. "Until your sister-in-law got sick. That must have been hard – hard on your wife, on you."

"My wife nursed Emma," McCoy said. "For years. She was tireless. Selfless."

"She was," Regan said. "Taking care of her sister all that time. While you – you were holding the family together, weren't you? Did you have to cut back on your hours?"

"Not really."

"Not really?" Regan moved a little closer still and McCoy edged back from her. "Dr Whitford, didn't you write to the registrar at your hospital and ask for a reduction in your workload due to 'family pressures'?"

"Yes, I did."

"And didn't she refuse you?"

"Yes," McCoy said.

"And didn't you drop out of the program there and take a transfer to Mercy?"

"It was closer to where we lived," McCoy said.

"And cheaper. And they accommodated your part-time hours, didn't they?" Regan put a little edge to her voice. "For reduced remuneration?"

"My children needed me," McCoy said.

"I know. And you took care of them. While your wife took care of Emma," Regan said. She realized she had taken another step forward only as McCoy took a corresponding step back. "Despite the sacrifices. Because family matters, doesn't it, Dr Whitford?"

"Yes," McCoy said.

Gaze fixed on his, Regan felt as if she and he were in a bubble of silence, of stillness, held outside the world by the force of the connection between them. She took another step forward. "When Emma died, it must have been terrible. Terrible for your wife, to lose her only sister. Terrible for you, too, Dr Whitford. To see her grieving like that."

"Yes," McCoy said softly.

"And to feel such a sense of relief," Regan said sympathetically. "It must have nearly torn your family apart."

"We coped."

"And then, Dr Whitford, to find out about the money," Regan said, shaking her head. "It must have been like Emma's apology for all she'd put your family through." She took another step and McCoy backed up again, coming up short with the wall at his back.

"Yes," he whispered.

"But it didn't make any difference, did it?' Regan asked. "Because your wife wanted it put aside for the children's education."

"We both value education," McCoy said, sounding defensive.

"After all the sacrifices you made?" Regan let a her skepticism show. "Your career? All those years of doing without? All those years of having half-a-life, while your wife spent most of her time caring for her sister? That's not fair. Is it, Dr Whitford?" She leaned close, getting right in his face, gaze steady on his, nowhere for him to go, no escape. "Is it? Dr Whitford?"

"No," McCoy said slowly, a reluctant admission. "No."

"You deserved that money, didn't you." Regan made it a statement, and McCoy nodded almost imperceptibly. Holding his gaze, Regan made her voice hard, commanding. "Didn't you?"

"Yes!" McCoy blurted, almost involuntarily.

Regan gave him a small, sympathetic smile. "And that's why you killed her," she said, very gently, gaze never leaving his.

McCoy stared back at her, and then, slowly, he smiled. "We'll make a trial attorney out of you yet, Ms Markham," he said softly.

Regan was suddenly aware she was mere inches away from him, so close she could feel his breath brush her cheek. _Too close_ , she thought distantly, but she couldn't move away, couldn't tear her gaze from his. The intensity of her concentration on the questions she needed to ask, the trap she needed to set, the path she had to lead Whitford down, still held her, wound tight with tension. McCoy too was completely still, only the too-rapid pulse at his throat betraying any lack of calm.

The sudden blare of the TV channel theme made them both start a little. Regan stepped back once, twice, straightened her jacket with her eyes on her feet.

"Can you do that in court?" McCoy asked. Regan looked up to see that he had not moved from where he stood, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets.

"I don't know," Regan said.

"Yeah you do," McCoy said.

"Yeah, I do," Regan admitted. "I can."

"Then go get cracking on the witness list," McCoy said. "We'll be in court in January."

* * *

.oOo.


	17. Home Beautiful

_Apartment of Peter Fraser_

_Friday 22 December 2006_

* * *

"How do you want to play this?" Eames asked her partner as they climbed the seventh flight of stairs. The effort of talking and climbing made her pant, and she waved to Goren to stop a moment. "Hey, when we're done here, let's shoot the super. Elevator out-of-order my ass."

"Think of it as a Stairmaster for cops," Goren said, waiting for her.

"Yeah, fuck you too," Eames said. "If my legs were that long I'd be quipping too."

Goren laughed, looking down at her fondly. Eames gave up and grinned back.

And suddenly found herself thinking about Mike Logan in the hospital, about Megan Wheeler's white face, and about –

About how it would be if it was _Bobby,_ not Mike, if it was _Bobby shot._

"Eames?" Goren asked. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Eames said. "Yeah, I'm okay. I just – had a moment."

Goren cocked his head to one side, studying her. "You know," he said, and paused. "You know, when we – when we couldn't _find_ you – " He stopped again, looked down at his feet like a schoolboy.

"I know, Bobby," Eames said.

"Let me finish," Goren said almost petulantly.

Eames climbed a few more steps up to be level with him, and then past him so they were almost eye to eye. "Okay," she said, thinking, _Sure. In this graffiti-adorned stairwell in a tenement building on the way to interview a possible suspect in an attempted cop-killing is absolutely the right place to have this conversation._

"I knew that if anyone. If anything _happened_ to you. I knew I'd – " He stuttered to a stop, looked down again and then met her gaze with a rueful little smile. "Don't get shot, Eames."

"Back atcha, big guy," Eames said.

"I'm never gonna find anyone else to put _up_ with me," Goren said, starting up the stairs again.

"Yeah, well, you've spoiled me for regular police work," Eames told him. "Now, we gonna go do this? How do you want to play it?"

"Mutt and Jeff?" Goren suggested.

"Sure," Eames said. She didn't need to ask, which of them would play the good cop, and which the bad. As always, they'd fall into the rhythm that the suspect's reactions gave them.

Peter Fraser was not what Eames had been expecting: she'd somehow formed an expectation that he'd be undersized, a scrawny pimply computer geek, or at least that he would be a gangly emo musician. In fact, Fraser was a strapping young man who would have been at home in a socialist realist painting of energetic bucolic farmers.

Eames caught herself at the thought. _I have been hanging around Bobby Goren too long,_ she thought. _No decent New York cop should know what a socialist realist painting_ _ **is**_ _, let alone looks like._

Fraser's apartment was clean and minimalist. The only thing that tied in with Eames's expectations was Fraser's girlfriend, a skinny little thing with stringy dark hair.

Goren looked around the apartment. Eames could see him sizing it up, and sizing up the occupants. She took two long strides to the right, getting clear of him, splitting the focus, and then Goren went on the attack.

_Okay, I'm the good cop_.

"So you must have bought a lottery ticket last Thursday, Peter," Goren said, leaning in close to him. Peter was no midget but Goren towered over him and the younger man tried to edge away.

"Why?"

"Why?" Goren said, and laughed. "O-okay, let's pretend you don't know. Let's pretend you don't know that _last Thursday_ someone _put a bullet_ in Detective Michael Logan. The same _Michael Logan_ who's the _main witness_ against your mother." Goren had Fraser back against the wall now.

"I read about it in the paper," Fraser said. "Have you caught the guy yet?"

Goren laughed with absolutely no trace of humor. "He wants to know if we _caught the guy_ , Eames."

"Cool it, Goren," she said, and caught Fraser's skinny girlfriend's eye with a little apologetic shrug. _Men_ , her shrug said. _What can you do?_ "How long has the elevator been out of order?" she asked the girl.

"Couple of weeks," the girl said. Eames couldn't tell if she was sullen or shy.

"Sucks," Eames said sympathetically, and the girl nodded a little. "Can I have a glass of water? It's a long way up those stairs."

"Sure." The girl headed towards the kitchen and Eames followed her without waiting for an invitation.

The kitchen was clean and minimalist too. Fraser's girlfriend took a glass from the cupboard over the sink and filled it. Eames noted that she didn't close the cupboard again.

"Thanks," she said. "This place is pretty chic, huh? Everything all shined up like a Home Beautiful ad."

"Yeah," the girl said.

"It'd make me crazy," Eames said, leaning a little forward to make it a confession. She rolled her eyes. "Always trying to remember to put stuff away."

The girl laughed. "Yeah!" she said.

"So I'm Alex Eames," Eames said.

"Emma Linton," the girl said.

"Pleased to meet you, Emma," Eames said. "You know why we're here, right? Your boyfriend's playing dumb out there with my partner – they've probably got a whole Dumb and Dumber double act going on out there – but _you_ know, right?"

"Peter's mother," Linton said. "That cop who got shot – he was the one who put her in jail."

Eames nodded. "We can't help wondering, Emma, if maybe Peter had a reason to take a shot at that cop."

Linton shrugged. "He had a reason," she said. "But he didn't."

"You're sure about that? We don't always know people as well as we think." Eames finished her water and put the glass on the sink.

"You're trying to make me suspect him," Linton said. "Make me wonder. But you can't. I _know_. He was with me, when it happened, that day."

"When?"

"They said it was around two last Thursday," Linton said. "On the news. And he was with me. From lunch on. He took the afternoon off work, and we went to the Met."

"You like art?"

Linton shrugged. " _He_ does."

Eames put her hand gently on the girl's arm. "Are you _sure_ , Emma? I mean, _really sure_? Because, you know, if he asked you to say that – it's pretty serious. You would be in a lot of trouble."

Linton looked back at her with no trace of uncertainty. "I'm really, _really_ sure."

Eames let her go. "Okay," she said. "Let's go join the boys."

Back in the living room, Fraser had maneuvered himself out from between the wall and Goren and was standing on the far side of the couch while Goren wheeled around the room.

"And so you _see_ , Peter," Goren said, opening the closet by the hall door and closing it again, "we have to _wonder_."

"He was with me," Linton interrupted.

"I told you," Fraser said.

Goren looked over at Eames and she gave him a tiny nod.

"Now I'd like you to leave," Fraser said firmly.

Goren opened another cupboard and peered inside. "You know, if you two are lying – "

"We'll be in trouble?" Fraser sneered.

"More than you can imagine," Goren said evenly.

Back in the stairwell, Goren cast an inquiring glance at Eames. She shook her head. "She alibied him. Didn't flinch. No cracks."

"What did she say?"

"They were at the Met."

"His story too," Goren said.

"Could be the truth."

"Could be," Goren said. "But Eames – did you see the gloves in the hall cupboard?"

"No," Eames said. "Gloves. Lots of people have gloves."

He shook his head. "Not like this," he said. "Blaze orange. The kind you wear – "

"Deer-hunting," Eames finished. She stopped on the stairs. "You want to go back up?"

Goren shook his head. "No. What have we got? An alibi – which _maybe_ we can break, if we work it. The fact that one of them is, or knows, a recreational hunter. I'm not even going to ask Carver to wake up a judge on that."

"So where to now?" Eames asked.

Goren grinned at her. "Want to go look at some art with me?" he asked.

Eames rolled her eyes. "You promise not to tell me why I should or shouldn't like it?"

"I promise," Goren said.

"Deal," Eames said. She started down the stairs again and Goren let her catch up to him. "But first …"

"First we shoot the super," Goren said, nodding.

* * *

.oOo.


	18. A Personal Stake

_Serena Southerlyn's Townhouse_

_Soho_

_9 pm Friday 22 December 2006_

* * *

_Merry Christmas … happy holidays …_ The voices drifted around Regan Markham. She hesitated at the door to the living room, clutching the bottle of wine she'd brought. Serena's house was full of people she didn't know, all talking and laughing. She scanned the room, looking for someone she knew. Looking, she forced herself to admit, for Jack McCoy.

She'd spent the day dealing with witness prep outside the office and she hadn't seen McCoy at all. Now, in her best dress – _not saying much,_ Regan thought, looking at the elegantly dressed women around her – here she was. And somewhere here, McCoy was as well. The knowledge made her stomach flutter. No reason for it, except … except _dark gaze steady on hers, the two of them caught in a knot of playacting tension turned all too real_.

She didn't see McCoy anywhere in the living room, but she did see Serena Southerlyn, who caught her gaze and came across the room, hands held out in welcome.

"I'm so glad you could come," Serena said, taking the wine and giving Regan a kiss on the cheek.

"Thank you for inviting me," Regan said awkwardly. She looked around. "I don't know any of these people, are they from the DA's Office?"

Serena shook her head. "Mostly from my new practice," she said. "After I … left, I was a little poisonous to most of my former colleagues." She must have seen something on Regan's face, and went on quickly: "Not that Branch would have done anything – just – you know. People tend to think that kind of thing is contagious."

"What kind of thing?" Regan asked.

Serena looked a little surprised. "Jack didn't tell you?" Regan shook her head. "I got sacked. Branch sacked me."

"Jesus," Regan said involuntarily. She fought the instinct to take a step away from Serena, as if losing your job was something you could catch, and then felt a rush of shame as the flicker in Serena's eyes told her the other woman had seen the suppressed movement. "Why? No, don't – none of my business."

"For getting too involved," Serena said dryly. "For prosecuting with my heart, not my head. _He_ said."

"And Jack?" Regan asked. Serena's answer was suddenly tremendously important to her. _Jack fought for me_ , she wanted Serena to say. "What did Jack say?"

Serena gave a tiny, elegant shrug. "Jack … never said anything. Before. Or after."

Disappointment filled Regan. "Not – anything?"

Serena shook her head. "No. Except … once. Long before. When I – when I came out at work Jack was great. I guess – he made me feel like I could finally be myself, be myself at work. And once – he told me to be careful. Now I wonder if he was trying to warn me. But after, I never asked him. And he never volunteered. I guess we both thought I was too angry to have that conversation."

"I'm sorry," Regan said, and meant it, meant _I'm sorry about your job_ , meant _I'm sorry Jack let you down._

Serena leaned forward slightly, and said conspiratorially, "Don't tell either of them, but it actually worked out for the best. I have a great practice. I do a lot of work for the community. I take cases for the Human Rights Campaign. I used to like some parts of my job and hate others. Now I love every minute I'm at work."

Regan smiled, feeling a lump in her throat. "Yeah," she said. "That's great. I used to have a job like that too."

Serena frowned a little, but before she could say anything a voice made them both turn.

"Hello," Megan Wheeler said. Regan thought she looked as awkward as Regan herself felt, although the detective had made a more successful effort at Christmas finery than Regan had, her curly red hair artfully tousled, her slim figure sheathed in a tastefully simple green dress.

"Hello," Regan said, but she could tell that neither Serena nor Wheeler heard her.

"I'm glad you came," Serena said softly.

"Me too," Wheeler said, beginning to smile. "You have a beautiful home. But – I noticed, no bars on the windows."

"You're _off-duty_ , Detective," Serena said, laughing. "Besides, I have an alarm. A good one."

"Do you remember to set it?" Wheeler asked, and Serena laughed again.

" _Off-duty_ ," she said firmly. "If you want to lecture me about personal safety, feel free to call between nine and five."

"You'd have to give me your number for me to do that," Wheeler said with a mischievous little smile.

"I'll just get a drink," Regan said, and slipped away.

She wandered through several rooms before she found the kitchen and the caterers. _Even_ _ **they**_ _are better dressed than I am,_ she thought glumly. It had been a mistake to come, she could tell that now. When one of the waiters offered her a glass of champagne she shook her head and beat a hasty retreat towards the front door. It took her a minute to find her coat on the temporary rack set up in the sitting room, its thin shabby sleeve almost invisible amidst the luxurious thick wool coats around it. As she hastily pulled it on her finger caught in the hole in the lining that had started to open around the shoulder and she heard a loud rip.

"Damn it." Regan shucked the coat again and studied the tear glumly. The fabric was rotten with age and she couldn't imagine how she'd begin to patch it.

"I told you to get a new coat," McCoy said behind her.

Regan jumped, heart pounding, and then turned slowly. "You startled me," she said, a true if partial explanation for the tremor in her hands.

"You're leaving already?" McCoy said. He was dressed for outdoors himself and Regan realized he had only just arrived.

"Serena won't miss me," Regan said.

" _I_ will," McCoy said slyly.

_So much for better judgment_ , Regan thought dizzily as she let him take her coat and hang it up again. She followed him back into the party silently, hanging back as he went to say hello to Serena. A waiter with a tray passed her and she snagged a glass of champagne, then on second thoughts grabbed another. When McCoy turned back to her she offered him one of the glasses.

"To dumb defendants and smart jurors," she said, holding up her glass. McCoy laughed and touched his glass to hers.

"Amen," he said, and then glanced behind him. "Is that Detective Wheeler in the green dress?"

Regan chuckled. "I told you, _I'm_ not the one Serena's interested in." She peered past him to see Serena and Wheeler standing close together in intent conversation. "Looks like it's mutual."

"That's gotta make it tough for her in the department," McCoy said thoughtfully.

"I hear it made things tough for Serena, too," Regan said a little defiantly. McCoy looked sharply at her.

"Is that what Serena told you?"

"She didn't say much," Regan said, "but I'm fully literate in between-the-lines."

McCoy was silent a moment, sipping his champagne. "I thought I could stand in between her and – everything. But in the end … Arthur Branch isn't Adam Schiff. And maybe I fooled myself about how much of a good guy I was. Maybe I would have fought harder for Jamie or Abbie."

"Because you had a personal stake?" Regan said, and regretted it the second the words were out of her mouth. McCoy glared at her and she held her breath.

"You've got a mouthful of wiseass tonight," he said tartly.

"Champagne goes straight to my head," she mumbled, looking down. They stood in awkward silence for a moment, Regan with her gaze fixed on her feet, until McCoy sighed a little and touched her arm.

"I need to talk to you," he said. "Work. Come on."

Ditching her half-empty glass on a waiter's tray, Regan followed him through the dining room and across the hall into what was obviously Serena's home office. Law books lined the walls, and a small fire crackled in the open hearth. Regan ran her hand enviously over the rich leather of the armchair set just right for reading by the fire.

McCoy didn't sit down, so Regan stayed standing as well. He drained his glass and set it on the mantle, then took an envelope out of his jacket pocket. "Emil Skoda sent me this today."

Regan's heart gave a painful thump and she swallowed hard. "Is it – "

"His assessment. Of you." He paused.

Regan waited as long as she could bear to, and then blurted, "What does he say?"

"Nothing you want on your personnel file," McCoy told her bluntly. He turned the envelope over in his hand but made no move to open it or to offer it to her. Regan waited again for him to say more, the crackling of the fire very loud, the pounding of her heart even louder.

"So is that it?" she said at last, trying to keep her voice light, matter-of-fact. "I'm done?"

McCoy looked up. "Do you want to be?" he asked. "You can get – I'm sure some kind of compensation payment. You crossed Walters's radar because of the job. And Carthage – that was on-the-clock as well, in a way. You could – go do whatever you want."

"I don't want to go do whatever I want," Regan said tightly. "I'm not – I'm not FUBAR. Don't toss me on the scrap-heap. I'm getting good at this job. I can do it. You know – Jack." She took a deep breath, trying and failing to keep the desperation out of her voice and the tears from her eyes. "Jack. Don't. Please."

He turned the envelope over and over again between his fingers. Regan stared at the rectangle of paper that held her future.

"Jack," she pleaded.

So suddenly it made her start, McCoy turned away from her and dropped the envelope into the fire. "Looks like you'll have to go see Skoda again," he said, watching it burn. "When he comes back from his holidays. Since I'm so careless."

Regan blinked hard, tears hazing her vision. "Thank you," she whispered.

"It's not a free pass," McCoy warned, looking at her at last. "You don't get to screw this up. Not one more time, do you understand? You'll see Skoda, you'll behave, you'll do what he tells you to do, you'll get your head straight. No other options."

"I will, Jack," Regan promised. She rubbed her face, pretending to scratch an itch so McCoy wouldn't see her tears. "I will, I swear it. I will. You'll see. No more screw-ups."

"You ready for Whitford?" McCoy asked, surprising her.

"That's not until January," Regan said.

"No such thing as too thorough," McCoy said. "I'll see you Sunday at Abbie's. Be ready to take me through your witness list."

_But it's the weekend before Christmas_ , Regan thought, and then: _It's not like you had anything else to do._

"Sure, Jack," she said. "Absolutely."

She turned back when she reached the door, but McCoy was staring down into the fire again. "Thank you," she said again. "For giving me a second chance."

" _Last_ chance," McCoy corrected. "Last chance, Regan."

* * *

.oOo.


	19. Distraction

_10_ _th_ _Floor_

_One Hogan Place_

_11.30 pm Saturday December 23_ _rd_ _2006_

* * *

_And so, ladies and gentlemen, the case is ultimately a simple one. Dr Whitford …_

Regan's eyelids drooped. _Come on,_ she urged herself. _Get it done. Jack wants to see the draft of his opening first thing after Christmas – and he wants the witness lists finished_ _ **tomorrow..**_ _._

Signing, she folded her arms on her desk and rested her head on them. _Just a second_ , she thought muzzily, closing her eyes. _Maybe ten. Just rest my eyes for a second…_

She fell into a black hole, started awake, sat up and realized McCoy was leaning in her doorway. "Hey," she said.

"Hey," he said. "How's it going?"

Regan looked down at her notes. "I just drooled on the best bit. I have to start using waterproof ink."

McCoy laughed. Regan stretched, flinched at the pull of the muscles in her shoulder. McCoy sauntered over and stood behind her. He put his hand on her shoulder and began to knead the tight muscle. "There?"

"Yeah – ouch."

He began to rub the spot with the ball of his thumb as he leaned over her shoulder to read what she had written.

"That's good," he said, "I like that."

"Mmm," Regan said. The knot in her back was easing beneath McCoy's ministrations. He paused to reach past her and turn the page, then began again, his touch gentler as he grew more absorbed in her draft words, reading some phrases aloud.

After a while it could hardly be described as a massage, his fingers stroking her shoulder blade, tracing the line of her spine, circling the nape of her neck with a sensuous slowness. At first Regan thought he had simply grown distracted, thoughts elsewhere, but when she stole a glance up at him he met her gaze, winked, and ran his thumb slowly over the back of her neck in an unmistakably erotic caress. A wave of heat washed over her, making her cheeks blaze, and McCoy smirked.

"That's a little distracting, Mr. McCoy," Regan said, her attempted imitation of a reproving schoolmarm ruined by the huskiness in her voice.

"Only a little? That's disappointing." His hand did not stop. When he slipped his fingers beneath the collar of her blouse Regan's eyes closed involuntarily.

"Do you want me to finish this opening?" she murmured.

"I _did_ tell you to have it ready first thing in the morning."

"Then you need to go back to your office," Regan said. She tipped her head back to look up at him, dislodging his hand.

"I see," McCoy said. "I don't know whether to be impressed by your work ethic or wounded by how easily you disregard my charms."

"Whichever gets me the faster promotion," Regan said, feeling slightly more in control of the situation. She realized what an illusion that was when McCoy brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers and his touch blazed through her like lightning, short-circuiting her brain.

"I'll leave you to sublimate," McCoy said smugly.

"Interesting motivational tool," Regan said, her mouth dry. "Work for you often?"

McCoy winked at her, but didn't answer. Regan kept her eyes on her papers until she heard him go down the hall.

_The case is ultimately a simple one_.

Still able to feel McCoy's touch burning across her skin, Regan shook her head. _Good thing something is_.

* * *

.oOo.


	20. The Bleak Midwinter

_Abbie Carmichael's Townhouse_

_8.30 pm Sunday 24 December 2006_

* * *

"That was amazingly good," Regan said as Abbie came back to the dining table after farewelling her two colleagues from the Southern District who had made up the numbers at dinner. "I can't remember when I had a turkey that good."

"You know, I'd really like to take the credit," Abbie Carmichael said, reaching for the wine bottle, "but the high moral standards demanded by my position as an officer of the court forces me to admit it's a delivery from 'Turkeys In Time' over in Brooklyn."

McCoy laughed at the expression on Regan's face. "Domesticity isn't part of Abbie's skill-set," he said as Abbie topped up his glass. She extended the bottle in Regan's direction, eyebrows raised in inquiry, but Regan shook her head.

"Better not," she said. "I'm a half-glass shy of karaoke as it is."

"Then drink up," McCoy joked.

"You wouldn't say that if you'd heard me sing," Regan shot back, grinning.

" 'Domesticity isn't in my skill-set'." Abbie said. "That's more than a mild understatement," She reached for Regan's plate.

"No, let me," Regan said instantly. "Domesticity isn't part of _my_ skill-set either but I can rattle pots and pans with the best of them." She began to clear the table, waving away Abbie's protest. "Sit. Relax. You've been slaving over a hot telephone all day getting this ready."

Abbie gave in. As Regan took the dishes through to the kitchen, McCoy poured himself an after-dinner scotch from the sideboard, and topped up Abbie's mineral water. He carried the glasses to the couch as Abbie fiddled with the stereo. After a moment an ethereal Christmas carol filled the room, and Abbie joined McCoy on the couch, putting her feet up on the coffee table with a sigh.

"How are you feeling?" McCoy asked her.

"Tired," Abbie said. "It's supposed to get better soon. So they tell me."

He turned to look more closely at her. "You're starting to show a little. Have you told them at work?"

Abbie shook her head. "They think I'm comfort eating with Tom away."

"You'll have to tell them soon," McCoy said.

"I know. But … that's one more thing that's going to change. I want it to be – just a little longer – like it's always been. Before nothing is like it's ever been."

McCoy put his arm around her shoulders. "It'll be different," he reassured her, "but wonderful."

"Yeah," Abbie said. "They tell me that too." She leaned her head on his shoulder. "So tell me what's going on?"

"Going on?"

"With you. You're looking – better. Than you were, for a while there. Are you – are things – mending?"

McCoy was silent a moment, listening to the strains of _Silent Night._ A police siren sounded in the distance, and the ironic counterpoint made him smile. "I guess," he said. "New problems. New worries."

"Bad ones?" Abbie asked in concern.

McCoy would have shrugged if it wouldn't have dislodged Abbie. "Hard to say. We'll see. We're racking up convictions, anyway. Arthur's happy."

"Your ADA," Abbie said. "She's not happy."

"One of my worries," McCoy said, striving for a lighter tone. "You know the job. It's hard on people. On all of us. Sometimes it's unforgiving."

Abbie lifted her head to look at him. "Not everybody's you and me, Jack," she said. "Not everybody can keep coming back for more."

"I know," McCoy said.

"Does she?" Abbie asked shrewdly.

"I don't think she wants to know," McCoy said slowly.

"New problems," Abbie said. "New worries."

" _My_ worries," McCoy said. "Not yours. What are you doing tomorrow?"

"Tom's family," Abbie said.

"Nice," McCoy said.

"Kind of," Abbie said. "Kind of scary, too. What about you?"

"Lisbeth," McCoy said. "And the nephews and brother-in-law and brother-in-law's mother and …" He trailed off as Abbie began to laugh. "I moved to New York to get away from family," he said, mock rueful. "Lisbeth followed me."

"You should be used to it," Abbie reminded him. "She's been here about a year less than you, right?"

McCoy nodded. "Came out to go to Hudson," he said. "And stayed."

"Lucky you," Abbie said. She yawned. "She's nice. I wish I had … a sister across town …"

After a moment McCoy realized she had fallen soundly asleep. Carefully, he set his glass down and took hers from her hand, then eased her down on the couch and tucked a throw around her. _Everything's going to change, Abbie_ , he thought, looking down at her. _Everything's going to change._

_Except me. I never change. Even when I should_.

He picked up the glasses and wandered out to the kitchen, where the chink of crockery told him Regan was washing up.

* * *

Regan set the last plate on the dish-rack and straightened her back. From the living room she could hear a female singer wending her way through _In the Bleak Midwinter_ , and she found herself humming along softly. _In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan._ "Earth stood hard as iron, water as a stone."

"I didn't take you for the Christmas carol type," McCoy said.

Regan turned slowly, drying her hands on the dishcloth. "Not really," she said. "I like that one, though. It reminds me – I can't remember, but there's something in the bible about stones."

"Matthew, 7:9," McCoy said. "Is there anyone among you, who, if your child asks for bread, will give a stone?"

"Choirboy," Regan said, smiling.

"Guilty as charged," McCoy said. "But also, Biblical quotes go down well with juries. I used that one to great effect." He set the glasses he held down on the kitchen island.

"What case?" Regan asked.

McCoy took a step sideways and leaned against the wall. " _People v Anna Dagshiell_ ," he said softly. "Child neglect. The jury convicted." Regan shivered involuntarily and McCoy raised his eyebrows. "Sorry. Not a Christmas story."

"I remembered it different," Regan said. "The verse. 'I asked for bread, and you gave me a stone', I thought it was."

"That might have been the way Anna Dagshiell's daughter would have put it," McCoy said.

Regan turned away from his perceptive gaze. "Did she – is she – " She stopped, needing to know the answer, not wanting to hear.

"Nice foster family, high-school valedictorian," McCoy said, and Regan turned back, a disproportionate bubble of joy filling her throat and making her eyes burn with tears. "I don't think she expects stones any more."

"That's good," Regan said thickly. "That's really good, Jack."

"I wonder what might have happened to her," McCoy said. He straightened and took a step toward where Regan stood by the sink. "If – I hadn't got that conviction. If she'd grown up thinking that it was just the way it was."

"But she didn't," Regan said. "She didn't. You don't need to worry about it."

"She's not the only girl in America getting stones instead of bread," McCoy said. "Or growing up only knowing how to – how not to get, how not to give."

"You going to save them all?" Regan said. "Or just the ones in New York City?"

"Just the ones in front of me," McCoy said, and Regan turned away again. She took a dish from the rack and began to dry it. When she'd finished, she realized McCoy was beside her, his hand held out.

She gave him the dish.

"I asked for bread, and you gave me Wedgwood," McCoy said dryly. Regan found herself caught between laughter and tears. She reached for another dish but McCoy put his hand over hers. He was standing very close to her. Regan wanted to move away, wanted to move closer. She looked up to see his eyes very dark. He leaned a little towards her.

"There's no mistletoe here," Regan pointed out.

"Mistletoe is not compulsory," McCoy said softly.

"This sort of thing – in the office…" Regan said.

"But we're not in the office," McCoy said.

_Danger, Will Robinson, Danger!_ But Regan couldn't look away. The dishcloth was still in her hands and she dried them over and again. McCoy leaned closer and took the cloth from her.

Regan could have backed away. But she didn't.

He leant towards her and again she turned her head, presenting her cheek to him, as clear a signal as a waved banner, _friends only_. And he kissed her cheek, but there was nothing _friends only_ about it. His lips traced her cheekbone, found the spot just by her ear that had always made her knees weak. Regan closed her eyes, felt the scratch of his five o'clock shadow and the soft contrast of his mouth. His breath was warm on her cheek but it made her shiver.

Seconds passed, or maybe hours, and the only point of contact between them was the caress of his mouth on her skin, but Regan felt every nerve ending blaze. Then she felt his tongue, his teeth, graze her jaw and the sensation drew a moan from her, as involuntary as the slow burning heat in her belly.

McCoy took that as the invitation it was. His arms slid around her waist and Regan leant against him, the warm strength of him, and his mouth found hers at last. He tasted of whiskey. There was no urgency in his kiss, in the slow movement of his hands, though she could tell he was as aroused as she was. She has never thought of him as a patient man but he took his time, teasing, testing.

Then his hand slipped beneath her blouse, his fingers touched her skin, and Regan felt her body shut down as if someone had flicked a switch. She seized his wrist, pulling his hand from her, pushing him away. "No," she said, hearing the panic in her voice. "No."

"Okay," McCoy said immediately, backing away.

Regan turned away from him, tucking her blouse back into her pants with shaking hands. "I'm sorry," she said. "It's, ah, we work together, it's a bad idea." Her clothes put together, she still couldn't look at him. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I should go."

"Regan, it's okay," McCoy said.

"No it isn't," she said, almost in tears. "No, it _isn't._ I have to go. I have to go _._ "

He was between her and door but moved out of her way immediately. Unable to meet his gaze, Regan hurried past him, grabbing her coat from the hall-stand and rushing out into the street.

Bitter winter cold hit her and she began to shiver violently. Struggling into her coat, she stumbled down the stairs. As she reached the sidewalk the tears came in earnest.

How she got home, she would never know, only that she found herself dazedly unlocking her door, chest aching. Safe inside, she sat down on her bed and buried her face in her hands.

" _Regan, it's okay," McCoy says._

"No it isn't!" Regan burst out desperately to the silent walls of her apartment. "No, it isn't!"

With shaking fingers she unbuttoned her coat and pulled her shirt free from the waistband of her pants. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and touched her fingers to the smooth skin at the side of her waist where McCoy's hand had rested. Bracing herself, she slid her hand an inch towards her navel, until her fingers encountered the first hard, raised, nerveless scar. Her eyes filled with fresh tears as she traced that scar up towards her ribs where it met another. Hesitantly, she flattened her hand and placed her palm on her belly, feeling the lumpy, ridged skin left by bullets and surgery. It felt to her like the back of an iguana, like the hide of some grotesque primeval creature battered by time and battle.

With her eyes still closed, she unbuttoned her blouse and drew it open. _I will look,_ she told herself firmly. _On the count of three, I will look_. _One. Two. Three._

Her eyes stayed closed. She stared at the red inside of her eyelids, tears running down her cheeks, and could not make herself open her eyes.

* * *

.oOo.


	21. Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas

_Mercy General_

_Christmas Day 2006_

* * *

"Hey, you stupid mick," Briscoe said. "Merry Christmas."

Mike Logan opened his eyes and the trace of a smile tugged at his mouth. His lips moved behind the oxygen mask.

"I'm guessing you're returning season's greetings," Briscoe told his former partner, picking up the visitor's chair and moving it to where Logan would be able to see him without moving.

Logan made an effort. "I said Happy Hanukah, you dumb kike," he whispered.

"Not dumb enough to have any bullet holes in me," Briscoe said. He sat down. "I had a nice Christmas cake for you but the nurses said you're not on solids yet. I'll just have to eat it myself."

That got another tired smile from Logan. "How they going …" he murmured, "with finding the bastard … who did this?"

"They've pulled out all the stops," Briscoe said. "I must be the only cop in the city not working it at least some of the time – me and Wheeler. Your brainy colleagues in Major Case are making a major pain of themselves. Van Buren is on the warpath. Ed Green – you know him? – he's chasing leads night and day."

"So no fucking progress," Logan whispered.

Briscoe sighed. "You're not as stupid as you look, are you?"

"Sometimes," Logan said. "Like, for instance, how's Wheeler?"

"She's okay," Briscoe said. "Running some stuff down for the DA with me."

"Bullshit," Logan said with a little too much vehemence. A cough shook him and gasped in pain.

"You want me to get someone?" Briscoe asked.

Logan shook his head. When he could talk he said: "I want you to tell me the fucking truth, Lennie. For old time's sake. How bad was she hit?"

"She wasn't," Briscoe said. "You were the only one."

"Is she dead?" Logan asked. "Is that what you aren't telling me?"

"No," Briscoe protested. "She wasn't hit, Mike. She wasn't hurt."

"Then how come she hasn't been in here?" Logan whispered. "Don't try and snow me. What happened to her, Lennie? What happened to my partner?"

Briscoe shook his head. "I'm not lying to you, Mike. She wasn't hurt. She just – she just hasn't come."

Briscoe knew Mike Logan well enough to know when he left that the younger detective wasn't convinced. _Why should he be?_ Briscoe thought. _Nothing short of a bullet would have kept Logan out of the hospital with a shot partner. Or me._

As he crossed the snowy street, Briscoe saw a familiar crop of red hair through the steamy window of a parked car. He rapped on the window.

Megan Wheeler hesitated, then wound the window down. "You need a lift somewhere, Lennie?"

"How long have you been sitting there?"

She shrugged. "A little while."

He studied her, the new lines around her eyes, the dark shadows beneath – and _in_ – them. "Mike's asking for you. He thinks you got shot up, too."

"Hope you told him different," Wheeler said.

"He doesn't believe me. Doesn't believe his partner wouldn't be in to see him once in all this time if she was still walking around under her own steam."

Wheeler look at him a long few seconds, unblinking, and then turned to look straight ahead through the windscreen of her car. "I can't go in there," she said. "Don't ask me to."

" _I'm_ not asking," Briscoe said pointedly. "Your _partner_ is."

"He's got you," Wheeler said, still staring straight ahead. "He's got Gina. He's fine." She reached for the ignition and turned the key hard enough to make the engine scrape. "Everybody's fucking fine, Lennie."

"Oh, sure," Briscoe said. He stepped back as she started to pull away from the curb, and watched her speed away down the street. "Everybody's _just_ fine."

* * *

.oOo.


	22. Discovery

_Office of EADA Jack McCoy_

_10_ _th_ _Floor_

_One Hogan Place_

_9.45 am Tuesday December 27th 2006_

* * *

"This is good," McCoy said. He dropped the pages of her draft opening on his desk and leaned back in his chair. "Needs work. But it's a good start."

Regan blushed. "I just followed your suggestions."

"Learn to take a compliment," McCoy said. "Less flatteringly, though - if you're going to be in court on this you need to get that haircut."

"You're hardly a GQ ad yourself, Jack," Regan said.

He looked up at her, well-worn suit hanging off his broad shoulders, shock of dark hair threaded with grey falling into his eyes, and gave her the patented Jack McCoy charming SOB grin. He didn't need to speak to make the point that his rumpled disarray was part of his courtroom charm.

"I'll make an appointment," Regan said resignedly.

"And one with Skoda," McCoy reminded her.

"That's done," Regan said. "After New Years."

"Good."

When she'd gone back to her own office McCoy paged through the draft she'd prepared. It needed a _lot_ of work, if he were being honest. _She's a rookie. She'll learn. That's why I told her to have it ready this early._

He picked up his pen, made a note in the margin, put it down again.

_A rookie here. But a rookie with a career behind her. A rookie with history. And plenty of baggage._

More than once in the past months McCoy had considered making a quick phone call to Seattle, an backchannel inquiry to see if there was anything the Manhattan DA's Office should know about Regan Markham. Each time he'd rejected the idea, sensing Regan would consider it an unforgivable invasion of privacy. _I'd hardly be overjoyed if she started asking around Chicago PD about John McCoy senior._

_But …_

_But_ Regan hadn't been the one facing the question of what to do with Skoda's report. _And Regan_ _ **isn't**_ _the one wondering if the person next to her at the bar table is going to go postal …_

He thought back to the phone call that had brought both Skoda and himself to the edge of the ethically defensible.

" _Off the record_ , _Emil." McCoy tilts his glass and watches the scotch swirl._

" _I'm more likely to breach doctor-patient confidentiality off the so-called record?" Skoda sounds faintly amused._

" _Is there confidentiality in workplace counseling?"_

" _Ask the union," Skoda says dryly, and McCoy chuckles in acknowledgement._

" _Doesn't apply here," McCoy counters._

_Skoda sighs. "Jack," he says, and stops for a long moment. McCoy lets the silence stretch out, a well-worn weapon from his prosecutor's armory. Skoda can often out-wait him, also an expert at the professional expectant silence._

_This time, though, McCoy thinks he's heard something in Skoda's voice, thinks that there's something the doctor would like to say, and he waits and waits until Skoda sighs again and then he knows he's right._

" _Hypothetically," Skoda says. "Hypothetically, I'd be surprised to see a patient with severe PTSD symptoms after a flesh wound sustained as a bystander." He pauses again. "One of the criteria for PTSD is that the event involved feelings of helplessness, fear, horror. Guilt. Shame. Hypothetically I'd be surprised to see it triggered by a ricochet. Hypothetically I'd say that when symptoms increase in severity that isn't a good sign."_

" _Is that what your report is going to say?" McCoy asks._

" _I'm hardly going to speculate in a document of that nature," Skoda said tartly. "I don't know anything about Regan Markham other than what you've told me and what I've seen. My point would be, if I were making one, other than hypothetically, is that the two don't match up. Not even close."_

Regan had told McCoy a story about a ricochet hitting her in the arm. It had had the ring of truth. But then, provoked and angry, she'd snapped at Branch "I got shot, twice."

 _Twice_.

He picked up the phone. "Colleen, can you get the Seattle DA's Office on the line?" he asked.

"The King County Prosecuting Attorney?" Colleen Petraky asked tactfully. "Mr. Satterberg himself?"

"No, his EADA or CADA," McCoy said.

"Yes, Mr. McCoy," Colleen said.

McCoy turned back to the judgment he was reading. It wasn't long before his phone rang and when he lifted the receiver Colleen told him she was about to connect him to David Cohen, Assistant Chief Deputy Prosecutor, Trials, King County.

A click, and McCoy heard a west coast accent asking how King County could help Manhattan.

"Just looking for a little information," McCoy said, putting his pen down and leaning back in his chair. "I've got one of your former cops in my office here and I was hoping to find out if there was anything that hadn't made it on to the official records."

"Scuttlebutt," Cohen said with a laugh. "Well, my secretary says I'm the worst gossip in the building, so fire away."

"Regan Markham," McCoy said. "What's her story?"

A pause. "Can't help you," Cohen said. "Never heard the name."

"Are you sure?" McCoy said. "She was in a shooting a few years ago – seemed to think it would follow her around in Seattle."

"I can tell you now I know every name of every cop shot in Seattle in the past ten years," Cohen said firmly. "I prosecute those cases – _personally._ Your Ms Markham did not take a bullet in the line in my city."

 _I got shot twice_ …

"Mr. Cohen, is there anybody in the Seattle PD I could talk to about this?" McCoy asked. "Or maybe Highway Patrol, I know she did a tour with them."

"I'll reach out to them myself," Cohen said. "Give me your number."

Ten minutes later, McCoy's phone rang again.

"Mr. McCoy," Cohen said without preamble, "I don't know quite how to put this. No-one called Regan Markham has ever served in the Seattle PD. Not in the city, not on highway. The records are centralized now. She's not on them. Regan Markham was never a cop in Washington State."

McCoy thanked him numbly, pressed the receiver rest and waited for Colleen to pick up again. "Colleen, can you bring me Ms Markham's personnel file?" he asked.

The file, when it arrived, was quite clear: previous work history, Seattle PD. McCoy flipped a page. _Law Degree Washington University_.

He dialed again. A short conversation with the Registrar later, and he had confirmation that Regan Markham had never graduated, had never _attended_ , Washington University.

The file in his hand was entirely a work of fiction.

 _And not just the file_. Regan hadn't just given a false history to the DA's Office. Every lie in the file had been compounded again and again by her every reference to her past. _I used to be a cop_ … _I got shot .._. _I was_ _ **a good cop ..**_ _. That's all I ever wanted to be. And now … It wasn't supposed to be like this!_

_All of it, lies. All of it._

_And I_ _**fell** _ _for it. Saw the 'good cop' in her, the good cop she never was. Let her off again and again when I'd have pointed another ADA to the door because she was hurt in the line, because she lost the job she loved so much._

_She's another Dan Tenofsky. It's just like two and a half years ago._

_Except he was a man with no past, not a fictional one he played for sympathy._

The anger McCoy had been holding in check since he'd heard Cohen say _Regan Markham was never a cop in Seattle_ flared white-hot.

He picked up the phone again and dialed Regan's extension. "Come in to my office," he told her curtly. "Now."

A moment later she was at the door.

"Close the door," McCoy said. He didn't offer her a seat and Regan didn't move to take one. She looked at him, seeming puzzled, wary. McCoy felt his whole body rigid with the effort of restraining his temper and guessed Regan could read something of his mood on his face. "Is there something you want to tell me?" he asked her.

"No?" Regan said.

"Are you sure?' McCoy said, giving her another chance, giving her _one last_ chance, giving her, finally _one absolute last_ _last_ chance. "Nothing you need to get off your chest?"

In an odd gesture she pressed one hand against her ribcage at his words. "My chest?" she echoed. "No. No, why?"

"Where did you go to law school?"

"Washington University."

"You sure?" he asked.

"Of course," Regan said.

"That's what your file says," McCoy said. "Which makes it even odder that Washington's never _heard_ of you."

"You pulled my jacket?" Regan said, voice rising with outrage.

"It's not a fucking 'jacket' it's a personnel file," McCoy snapped, slapping the file back on his desk and standing up. "And I'm not your patrol-car buddy, I'm your _boss_ and I have the right to your file _whenever I want_." He took a step closer to her. "So can the cop-talk – you're not in uniform now. If you ever were, Regan, which I seriously doubt, since Seattle PD has never heard of you either. What did you do, watch a lot of Hill Street Blues reruns to pick up the lingo? It's bad enough that you've been lying to me, _to everyone_ , all this time, but what's really despicable is this charade of being shot in the line, the whole PTSD drama queen routine. When I think of Detective Green and the way he handled coming back to work, no fuss, no drama, the way a _real cop_ does, the way you've insulted officers like him with your phony – "

Her eyes went flat as stone. McCoy was taken completely by surprise when she slapped him across the face.

* * *

.oOo.


	23. A Semblance of Dignity

 

For a few frozen seconds they stared at each other, Regan white as her shirt, McCoy for once too angry to find words.

"Get out," he said to her finally. "You no longer work in this office. Don't stop to clear your desk. Your things will be sent to you. Just get out."

Without saying a word, Regan turned on her heel and stalked out. McCoy would have liked to think her frozen silence was guilt but he knew it wasn't. _She doesn't even have that much sense._ The fury in her eyes had been unmistakable. Rage, not shame, had blanched her cheeks.

Regan brushed past Sally Bell in the doorway, ignoring the other woman's greeting. Sally looked from her retreating back to McCoy's face and raised her eyebrows. "Lovers tiff?" she asked.

"Internal disciplinary measures in the DA's Office are none of your business," McCoy snapped. He wiped blood from the corner of his mouth with his thumb.

"So _that's_ what you're calling it these days," Sally said. 'Well, here's a little _external_ discipline for you. Motion to suppress, and motion to dismiss."

"On?" McCoy snapped, taking the blue-black she held out.

"Whitford."

" _You're_ counsel appearing?" McCoy asked.

"You froze Dr Whitford's funds. His high-price lawyer ditched him. Now he has me – bargain basement. Keep up with your paperwork, Jack," Sally said. "Or get your new girl to do it."

"What grounds?" McCoy said, scanning the blue-black, ignoring her needling.

"Probable cause. You had no probable cause to subpoena his bank records. No records, no money. No money, no motive."

"You're reaching," McCoy said automatically, knowing she wasn't. From the look Sally gave him, she knew it too.

"See you in chambers, Jack," Sally said. She paused at the door and shook her head. "Internal disciplinary measures were a little less _physical_ in my day."

 McCoy scanned the blue-back again. _No probable cause_. Regan's subpoena. _Regan's mistake._

"Goddammit!" he said, and headed for the door.

A glance told him Regan had taken him at his word and wasn't in her office. He headed for the elevator, jabbing the button impatiently, and then giving up and wrenching open the door to the fire-stairs.

He raced down the stairs and when he reached the lobby he saw Regan heading for the front doors.

"Regan!" he shouted. She kept walking with only the slightest break in her stride to show she'd heard him. McCoy started after her. "Regan, goddammit!" He caught up with her and grabbed her arm, pulling her around to face him.

"Get your hand _off_ me," Regan said in a low hard voice McCoy had never heard from her before. _Cop's voice_ , he thought, a heartbeat before he remembered she wasn't, _had never been_ , a cop.

He let her go and slapped the blue-back on her chest. Regan grabbed it before it could fall to the floor.

"I guess I shouldn't expect any better than this sloppy work from someone whose law degree is a _work of fiction_ ," McCoy snapped. "Spinning a fantasy life to deceive the people around you is bad enough, Regan, but you've put a case in jeopardy. God knows how many others."

Regan glared at him, then yanked open the blue-back and scanned it. She folded it up again and shrugged. "Inevitable discovery," she said tersely, and held the papers out to him.

McCoy didn't take them. "That's it? That's what you're giving me? _Inevitable discovery_?"

"You're so fucking smart, Jack, you know goddamn everything, you're _never_ fucking wrong! Figure it the fuck out!" She let the blue-back fall to the floor and turned away. McCoy scooped it up and got in front of her.

"You're just going to walk away from sloppy work and leave someone _else_ to clean up the mess – "

"I don't _work_ here anymore!" Regan shouted.

"With this standard of work – " McCoy shouted back

"Both of you!" Arthur Branch roared. McCoy turned to see the DA by the doors. He strode across to them. "Both of you, try to maintain _some_ semblance of decorum and dignity! At least in damn public! In the elevator!"

"Arthur, Ms Markham – " McCoy started to say.

" _In the elevator_!"

McCoy bit back anything else he had to say. He brushed past Regan and strode back to the elevator. Branch and Regan followed. The three of them stood in icy silence until the elevator arrived. A young ADA McCoy vaguely recognized as being from Narcotics took one look at the three of them and backed away towards the stairs.

"What in tarnation happened to your face, Jack?' Arthur asked as the doors closed with all three of them in the elevator car.

"Ms Markham assaulted me," McCoy said tersely. He saw Branch look consideringly at Regan.

"That true, Miss Markham?" Branch asked.

"He had it coming," Regan said, her tone as brusque as McCoy's had been.

"Because I found out you've been lying to the DA's Office?" McCoy snapped, outraged. "Arthur, Ms Markham isn't who she told us she is. Neither the University of Washington nor the Seattle PD have any record of her. She's been lying to this office. I've terminated her employment."

"Have you now," Branch said. "I seem to remember that it is the prerogative of the man who sits in _my_ chair to hire and fire."

"As EADA, I can – "

"Exercise my delegated authority. _When_ I delegate it." He looked from McCoy to Regan. "Miss Markham, Mr. McCoy was waving around a motion that seemed to have him quite excited. Take care of it. And you, Jack, in my office."

The elevator doors opened on the tenth floor. McCoy held out the blue-back to Regan and she snatched it from his hand and strode away from the two men towards her office.

"Arthur – " McCoy said. "She doesn't even have – "

"I said, _in my office_ ," Branch said.

McCoy managed to bite his tongue until the door of Branch's office was shut behind them.

"Regan Markham isn't who you thought she was," he burst out.

"So you said," Branch said. "But what led _you_ to that conclusion?"

"I had reason to be talking to Seattle PD," McCoy lied. "I mentioned that she was working here. Arthur, they've never _heard_ of her. She's not even a _lawyer_. Washington University never heard of her. The whole of her story – her personnel file – it's all fiction. She's another Dan Tenofsky." He paused. "Except Tenofsky knew his way around a law book. And Tenofsky had records that at least stood up to a _cursory_ examination. Two phone calls blew her story apart, Arthur! What the _hell_ are they _doing_ in personnel?"

"Are you sure you aren't jumping to a conclusion here, Jack?" Branch asked.

McCoy looked at him, astonished. "Did you hear me? She's lied to the office. She's lied to us all! About her degree, about her work history about – about who knows what else?" _That cop great-grandfather of hers … the dead husband … I talked to her about Claire. I almost told her about my father. And every word she said, every tug at my sympathy, all of it_ _ **bullshit.**_

 _I won't be called a liar_ , she'd stormed at him during the Forrest case. _Clearly a raw nerve. And no wonder._

"I'll talk to her," Branch said. "Find out what's going on."

"Good luck," McCoy snorted. "She had no defense for me. What the hell do you think she could possibly say? She's in witness protection? There's a typo in her personnel file? Come on! It's obvious what's been going on. She's a manipulative liar!"

"Maybe a conversation in a less intense emotional key might be more productive," Branch said. He looked shrewdly at McCoy. "You're taking it awfully personally, Jack."

"The person sitting next to me at the bar table is a pathological liar," McCoy retorted. "How would you like me to take it?"

"Professionally," Branch said bluntly. "And that means not flying off the handle and sacking people you have no right to sack. Has it occurred to you that firing her on the spur-of-the-moment without any proper processes leaves this office _wide_ open to a lawsuit?"

"You won't let me sack her, _you_ sack her," McCoy said. "You're good at that, Arthur, I seem to recall – for much less reason."

"There's that line again, Jack," Branch said, voice rising a little. "I'll do what I think is fit – this time, like the last time."

"You don't sack her, you can't make me work with her," McCoy snarled. "I can't work with someone I can't trust. I can't work with someone who's lied to me – over and over again."

Branch looked at him. "Okay, Jack. How about this? You've got two big cases on your desk right now, too big for one man to handle them both. Send Whitford down to Carver and send Regan Markham with it. And leave any questions about her record with me."

"Send her to Major Case? She's a major _head_ case, not Major Case. How does a _promotion_ send a message – "

"We're not sending any kind of message," Branch said. "Well, if you want to look at it this way, Ron Carver is even more of a one-man band than you are. Working with him will be no picnic for Miss Markham. She might even come to look back on _you_ fondly."

"I don't care how she looks at me," McCoy said.

"Whatever you say, Jack," Branch said. "Whatever you say." He picked up the phone on his desk. "Colleen, find desk space for Miss Markham down in Major Case. And tell her that when she's done with Mr. McCoy's motion, she should get her butt into my office." He hung up the phone and looked back at McCoy. "That'll be all, Jack."

Steaming, McCoy stared at him a moment, and then had no choice but to accept the dismissal. He opened the door closest to his office so hard it slammed against the wall and two of Arthur's trophies fell over with the vibration.

"Mr. McCoy – " Colleen said as he stormed past her. "Mr. McCoy. Mr. Branch wanted me to move Ms Markham?"

"Then you'd better do it," McCoy snapped.

"The asbestos abatement program has Major Case sharing space with half of SVU. They're all doubled up. There's no room down there for another body."

"Tell Arthur!" McCoy ordered her.

He had barely made it back to his desk when Regan marched in to his office without knocking. She flung a sheaf of handwritten pages down on the desk. "Inevitable discovery."

McCoy wanted to tell her to take the papers to Carver or to hell for all he cared but curiosity won out. He picked up the first page and scanned it.

"The money he took from the kid's accounts was used in part to pay his fancy lawyer," Regan tightly. "We would have seen it in the accounts. Then any competent prosecutor would have checked the rest of the funds. Inevitable discovery."

"Take it to your new boss," McCoy said, refraining from any comment about _competent prosecutors_. "You and the Whitford case are both going down to Major Case. Ron Carver. You'll be moving your desk as soon as they can find you one."

Regan stared at him. "That's _it_?" she said. "I'm _gone_ , just like that?"

"What the hell did you expect?" McCoy snapped. "What the _hell_ did you expect? That I'd shrug and say, fine, you're not a lawyer, fine, you've never spoken a _word_ of truth to me, fine. Let's just go on working together?"

"I expected – " Regan said tightly. "I would have expected that you'd think a little bit more about what you _know_ about me before you wrote me off – "

"I don't know anything about you!" McCoy shouted, on his feet. "All I know is that _I don't know anything about you_!"

"You've known me for months," Regan said levelly, her voice steely with contained fury. "We've worked together. We've eaten together. We've slept in the same bed. We've conspired to have a man killed together. We've seen each other on the edge, Jack, _on the edge_ , and _covered_ for each other. You're my _partner_. And you think you don't know anything about me?" She shook her head. "You know everything about me that you need to know. But I guess I don't know _you_ at all."

She turned on her heel and stalked out, head up, back rigid.

 _Exactly as if she's the wronged party in all this,_ McCoy marveled, shaking his head. _Maybe she's not lying. Maybe she's stone-cold crazy._

* * *

Regan Markham knocked on Arthur Branch's door and then opened it. "You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Come in and put your butt in that chair," Branch said.

Regan did as she was told, folding the pages she'd written in response to Sally Bell's motion over and over again in her lap.

The anger that had carried her this far began to fade, leaving her cold and shaken.

"This is a fine mess," Branch said to her.

"Yes, sir," Regan said.

"Did you really think that this would never happen?" Branch said.

Regan shrugged. "I hoped. I thought – I didn't think anybody would be interested."

"You got Jack McCoy interested."

"I didn't mean to," Regan said.

"Are you so sure about that?" Branch said. "Jack McCoy has a way of being bad for the women who work too closely with him. You should bear that in mind."

"I will," Regan said. "But I'm not working with him anymore."

"That won't stop him asking questions. Curiosity is one of Jack's defining characteristics."

"And the other one is pride," Regan said. "He's written me off, Mr. Branch. It's beneath him to even think about me, now."

"Well, maybe all this happened for the best," Branch said shrewdly. "Now, I made you a promise, and I've kept it. And I'll go on keeping it. But it's starting to cost me, Miss Markham."

"I appreciate it, sir," Regan said.

"I can't bank your gratitude. But your support for my re-election – that's money in my _political_ bank."

Regan felt her heart sink. "What are you asking me to do, sir?" she asked.

"Just be ready when I do have something to ask you," Branch said. He studied her. "Now, no need to look like I just ran over your best dog. You knew this was going to come one day. I've given you a very free ride up till now. Now it's time to pay the fare."

"Yes, sir," Regan said numbly. _Pay the fare. Pay the price._

_Until this morning I thought I had paid everything there was to pay. Until this morning I thought I had nothing left to pay._

_There's always something. There's always more, and there's always something._

She stood up.

"You look awful," Branch said bluntly. "Take the day. Take tomorrow. Report to Carver on Friday. I'll make sure he understands."

"Yes, sir," Regan said.

Out in the hall, she stopped dead, fighting for breath. Her chest ached and she pressed her hand flat against it, against the scar beneath her clothes.

"Are you all right, Ms Markham?" Colleen asked hesitantly. Regan half turned and saw the older woman regarding her warily. _Probably the whole floor heard me and Jack shouting at each other._

Regan manufactured what she hoped was a reassuring smile. "I'm fine, Colleen. Thank you."

_I'm fine._

She made her way back to her office and shut the door behind her but her knees gave way before she could reach her chair. She sank to the floor and put her hands over her mouth.

She'd held everyone at arm's length until her arms got too tired. She'd put up a wall of glass between her and the world.

 _The problem with glass_ …

_You get cut to ribbons when it shatters._

_I should have seen it coming,_ she told herself. _I should have realized it was inevitable. I should have been – prepared. Better prepared._

But she'd been blindsided. And when he'd accused her – _and I should have known that would be his reaction_ – she hadn't even had a second to understand _his_ sense of betrayal before unreasoning rage had swept through her until …

_She doesn't even think about it. Her hand moves, fury and betrayal and grief behind it, and then she's staring at Jack McCoy leaning dazedly against his desk, blood on his lip, blood on her stinging knuckles._

Regan turned her hand over and looked down at her reddened knuckles. She rubbed away the blood.

" _Do you lose your temper more than you used to?" Skoda asks her._

_I never used to lose my temper at all._

_I told Skoda it was because I was startled. I told_ _**myself** _ _it was because I was startled, because William Perry took me by surprise with the blood, because, because, because …_

_I wasn't startled today._

"Maybe Skoda is right," Regan said aloud, startling herself. _Maybe I do need to learn a few techniques to function in normal society._

 _B_ _efore it's too late. If it isn't already._

* * *

.oOo.


	24. What You See Is What You Get

_Major Case_

_Thursday December 28_ _th_ _2006_

* * *

"So what's left?" Briscoe asked.

Wheeler thumbed through the pages in front of her. "A lot more-of-the-same," she said. "The limo company, the Met, the same restaurants." She shrugged. 'I don't think we need to prioritize those, now we know what the company names are. I mean – unless he confessed to the limo driver."

"Hey, stranger things have broken a case," Briscoe said.

Wheeler picked up a pen and started drawing lines through the entries on the credit card statement. "Florist, wine club, fancy clothes store, limo, limo, jeweler, dinner, opera, new watch …"

"Living like a rich man," Briscoe observed.

"A rich man with a young girlfriend," Wheeler said. "Some of these charges for clothes are high-end women's stores – and not for classy matrons, either."

"We got nothing on any girlfriend," Briscoe said. "The only woman he's been seen with in public is his daughter. Some of those theatre tickets, dinners – a little father-daughter bonding, according to the maitre-de and the usher I interviewed."

"Okay, here's what stands out," Wheeler said after a minute. "'Wysiwyg Arrangements'." She spun her chair around to the computer and began typing. "That's the registered company name for something called 'Discretion'. Address is over on the Island." She typed again. "Here's a number."

She dialed it. A woman said 'Hello,' and Wheeler said "Hello."

A second later she was listening to a dial tone.

"She hung up!"

"Let me," Briscoe said. He took the receiver from her and Wheeler pressed redial. She listened as Briscoe said, "Hi, honey, I got this number from a friend of mine. Dr Whitford. I wanted to know if you were free tonight? Okay, how about tomorrow? Nothing until _then_? Okay, where – and how will I – okay." He hung up.

"What was _that_?" Wheeler asked.

"I have a date," Briscoe told her. "Saturday 6th. With a woman who tells me she is tall, slim, blonde and _very_ classy."

"She's a pro?" Wheeler asked. "So that's something else Whitford was treating himself to?"

"Looks like," Briscoe said. "I doubt he confessed to the murder of his wife in her no-doubt-entrancing company. But we'll see."

"Stranger things have happened," Wheeler said.

"Yeah," Eames said behind her. "I, for example, could spend an afternoon looking at dirty pictures."

"It was a _Rembrandt_ ," Goren said.

" _Expensive_ dirty pictures," Eames corrected herself, sinking into her chair. "What have you got there, Wheeler?"

"Murdering husband's credit card statements," Wheeler said. "And you?"

"An alibi we can't break or confirm," Eames said. "Peter Fraser and his young lady say they spent the afternoon looking at _art_. Guess who saw them?"

"Nobody and his friend Ida Know?" Briscoe said.

"We have run down every single security guard, docent and janitor," Eames said. "We have been back – how many times have we been back, Bobby?"

"Five," Goren said.

"And it could have been four but he wanted me to see the _Rembrandts_ ," Eames said.

Wheeler couldn't quite look at either of them. Their easy camaraderie felt like sleet stinging her skin, each dry quip or affectionate glance reminding her that she didn't have that with Logan and two bullets had taken away even the possibility she might come to have it one day.

"What do you want to do with the rest of these?" she asked Briscoe abruptly. "With the holidays, we won't have anything for Markham until too late unless we split them up."

"Agreed," Briscoe said. He held out his hand. Wheeler tore her list of unidentified charges in half and handed one half over.

"I'd better get moving," she said, and grabbed her coat. She was out of the squad room and away from Goren and Eames before Briscoe had the chance to say goodbye.

* * *

.oOo.


	25. Clothes Maketh The Lawyer

_Office of ADA Ron Carver_

_One Hogan Place_

_Friday December 29_ _th_ _2006_

* * *

Regan took a deep breath, smoothed her hair down, and knocked on the door in front of her.

"Come in."

Regan had seen Ron Carver at a distance, but she hadn't known up that he would be quite so elegantly polished up close. He looked her up and down, in a coolly assessing way without a hint of harassment that none the less made Regan intensely aware that her suit was rumpled and her hair straying loose from its pony-tail.

"I'm Regan Markham," she said. "Jack McCoy sent me down to work Whitford with you."

"I know," Carver said. "Have you done a lot of courtroom work?"

"Some," Regan said. "Second chaired for Jack McCoy on Forrest. Among others."

"Anyone looking at Jack McCoy can tell he has a – _flexible_ – dress code," Carver said. "I'm a little more down-the-line. I know the DA's Office doesn't pay ADAs a hell of a lot of money, but just because you represent the People doesn't mean you can turn up to court looking like a bag lady. We'll be in court on the second, and you'll be looking a little more professional."

"Yes, sir," Regan said, cheeks blazing.

Carver pressed a button on his phone. "Mr. Johnson, could you come in here a moment?"

The office door behind Regan opened and she turned to see a man around her own age looking expectantly at Carver.

"Ms Markham, Mr. Johnson. Mr. Johnson is one of my paralegals. Mr. Johnson, Ms Markham will be my second chair on Whitford. She needs to look presentable for court."

"Yes, Mr. Carver," Johnson said. Regan's incipient panic was eased a little when Johnson threw her an outrageously campy wink. "If you'd come with me, Ms Markham?"

She followed him out into the hall and was bemused to see him picking his coat up from behind his desk. "Mr. Johnson?"

"Oh, please," Johnson said. "It's Chuck. And I'm going to call you – what _am_ I going to call you?"

"You're going to call me Regan," Regan said.

"I am? Oh, good," Chuck said. "Now, my dear, come along with me."

_Coming along_ with Chuck turned out to take the rest of the day. First he bundled her into a cab and then bundled her out at a tiny hairdressers in Queens.

"I'm not sure about this," Regan said, eyeing the dingy windows.

Chuck put his hand in the small of her back and pushed her forward. "From the look of your hair, the last haircut you had, you gave yourself with nail scissors. I don't think you're in a position to be 'unsure' about anything. Go on."

An hour later, Regan looked at herself in the mirror and had to admit that Chuck had been right. Her hair was not only tidier, but seemed miraculously sleeker. The old Sicilian barber behind her met her gaze in the mirror and nodded, satisfied. "Now you looka like a lawyer," he said, and Regan had to agree. She was pleasantly surprised by the price, as well.

"Fifth avenue haircuts at bargain-basement prices," Chuck said. " _Don't_ lose the address." Then he whisked her off to a series of shops that had Regan's head whirling – discount outlets, second-hand stores, a couple of tiny boutiques set up practically in alleyways. He made her buy almost everything in a size too large and then dragged her to a tailor in Chinatown who measured her rapidly, clucking her tongue and chattering in Cantonese. They left most of the clothes Chuck had made her buy to be altered, including the suit she'd worn to work that day, and suddenly Regan found herself out on the street in a new red silk blouse and a tailored skirt that managed to give her hips.

"One more stop," Chuck told her, and towed her along the street to a department store. He steered her up to the counter, winked at the woman behind it, and said: "I think everything, don't you?"

He supervised as the makeup saleswoman painted and powdered her, and then spun her around to look in a mirror.

She expected to see the garishly painted figure that usually resulted from her own attempts with makeup. Instead, she saw a Regan Markham somehow smoothed and polished. _Almost pretty_ , she thought, lifting one hand to touch the simple, sophisticated hairstyle, the slightly flushed cheeks.

"I hope you have a hot date tonight, ma'am," the woman said.

"No," Regan said.

"Oh, please," Chuck said. "You can't waste day one of a makeover on CSI reruns." He thought for a moment, then brightened. "The Lord Roberts. Plenty of our people there on a Friday night."

"Chuck," Regan said. "I'm not your people."

"I mean prosecutors, darling," Chuck said, amused. "And cops. Come on!"

Regan couldn't find it in herself to disappoint him, and found herself sitting on a barstool in the Lord Roberts with a colored cocktail she didn't even know the name of in one hand.

"There you go, my dear," Chuck said. He pointed across the bar to the mirror behind it. "Who do you see?"

Regan looked between the bottles, trying to find her own reflection. It took her a moment to recognize the polished blonde sipping the sophisticated drink.

Chuck leaned closer to her. "A _lawyer_ ," he whispered triumphantly.

Regan felt herself blush. He was right. For the first time she looked like one of the other ADAs at Hogan Place: elegant, confident – _belonging_.

Shyly, she ducked her head and looked away – then spun back to face Chuck as a familiar face at the end of the bar caught her eye.

"Oh, shit," she blurted.

"What?" Chuck asked.

"That guy down there, the narc."

"You know him?"

"Yeah," Regan said.

"He dump you?"

"Not really," Regan said. "Actually, I owe him an apology."

"Well, I'm sure he'd be happy to accept it from a babe like yourself," Chuck said. "Go and talk to him. Go and talk to your man – while I go and talk to mine."

Regan took a deep breath and gathered her courage. She _did_ owe Ben Strickland an apology. She'd rather have run away, but that wouldn't have been fair. She took another sip of her cocktail for Dutch courage and walked slowly down the bar to Strickland.

"Ben," she said.

Strickland looked up and she saw him register her new appearance. "Regan," he said. "You look well. Better than last time I saw you. Can I buy you a drink?"

"I'm okay, Ben," she said. "I just – I wanted to apologize. For the last time you saw me. I – and then my boss – you didn't deserve any of that."

"If I'd know I was getting in between something," Strickland said, "I wouldn't – "

"No, it's not like that. I – I wasn't ready. I'm not ready. And I thought I could make myself ready. But I couldn't. I'm sorry."

"So that's it?" Strickland said.

"I'm sorry," Regan said again. "I really am."

He gave her a rueful little grin. "So am I. But, hey, don't lose my number. And if you get ready …" Strickland stood up and leaned over to give her a peck on the cheek. "Take care, Regan Markham."

She nodded, not able to speak past the lump in her throat. She turned and hurried away. Chuck was talking animatedly to a handsome young man in the corner of the bar and Regan didn't interrupt him. She grabbed her coat from the rack, hoisted her shopping, and went out into the chilly evening.

_I couldn't make myself ready_.

_Not for Ben. Not for anything._

_Maybe I better learn how._

_Before it's too late._

_If it isn't already._

* * *

.oOo.


	26. New Year's Eve

_10_ _th_ _Floor_

_One Hogan Place_

_6.00 pm Sunday 31 December 2006_

* * *

New Year's Eve might be a normal working day for the DA's Office, but by mid-afternoon everyone who could manage to work a little personal time left the building. Most of the courts had adjourned until the second of January. Arthur Branch was at home, McCoy thought he was probably taking a nap in preparation for the bigwig's New Year's Eve Party he would be going to, more for schmoozing than boozing.

McCoy had heard complaints from some of the Bureau Chiefs about staff whose work ethic didn't quite match their own. Tracey Kibre, for one, saw leaving at four pm on Christmas Eve as tantamount to treason.

McCoy himself didn't mind. _Just because Tracey and I don't have lives_ , he thought, _no reason the people we work with can't._

And he liked the quiet.

Today, though, that quiet was disturbed. As McCoy sat at his desk, trying to review a deposition, his eye was caught again and again by the rectangle of light spilling out from the door down the hall.

_Regan Markham._

She shouldn't have even been in the building. She certainly shouldn't have been working in Major Case or sitting in an office on the tenth floor.

McCoy frowned down at the pages in front of him. Every time he lifted his head he could see the light spilling out from Regan's office door. Every time it annoyed him all over again.

Finally he put down his pen and got to his feet. His intent was to close the door of his office, but he found himself walking down the hall towards Regan's door.

It took him an instant to recognize the slim woman with the dark honey hair reaching up to take a book from her shelf as Regan Markham. _You've done something different to you hair_ , he almost said, before he remembered that they weren't on those kind of terms any more.

She turned and saw him and went very still.

"Need something?" she said at last.

"It's New Year's Eve," he said. "Don't you have somewhere to be?"

She shrugged. "Yes," she said. "And I'm there."

"Do you think hitting the books will make up for your lack of legal training?"

She blew out a sharp breath and put her hands on her hips. "I'm just not one for the whole New Year's Eve _Auld Lang Syne_ thing."

"Not planning on turning over a new leaf? Maybe making a resolution of honesty?"

"I don't believe in new leaves," Regan said tightly.

"That's right," McCoy said sardonically. "You don't believe in fresh starts. Or happy endings. Or so you said. Was that another lie?"

"If you're looking to get another smack in the mouth you're going about it exactly the right way."

"That's your solution to everything, isn't it?" McCoy said. "Hit whoever's nearest."

She looked down, and McCoy realized his shot had struck home.

"I shouldn't have hit you," she said stiffly. "I was wrong. I'm sorry."

"It was my mistake," McCoy said, and Regan looked up at him almost hopefully. "If I'd done my job you'd have been out of here months ago, and none of this would have happened."

Regan's face fell and she turned back to her desk. "Do you have something to tell me or ask me that you actually have a right say to me? Or are you just trying to make yourself feel better by making me feel worse?"

McCoy glared at her, but it was wasted on Regan, who opened her book and began to read it. "I came to tell you you're the last one here," he said, making a sudden decision. "Don't forget to tell security when you leave."

"Fine," Regan said tightly. "I could use the peace and quiet."

McCoy strode back to his office and changed into his jeans and motorcycle jacket. He shoved his deposition and a couple of law journals into his bag on top of an unopened bottle of scotch, grabbed his helmet and headed for the elevator, not sparing a glance to see if Regan was still engrossed in her reading.

The traffic was heavy and the weather was bad. The effort of concentration it took McCoy to avoid an accident let him forget the conversation for a moment. When he stopped outside Abbie Carmichael's house, though, Regan's words began to ring in his ears again. He pulled off his helmet and angrily shook his head. Jogging up the steps to Abbie's door, he rang the bell.

She checked him out through the peephole and then threw the bolt in a hurry.

"Jack – what – is something wrong?"

"No," he said quickly. "No, Abbie – I'm sorry, I should have called. I was passing, and – "

"Come in," Abbie said, taking his arm and pulling him inside.

"I should have called," McCoy said again.

"You don't need to call," Abbie said. She led the way to the living room and took his helmet and bag. She hefted the bag a little. "Heavy," she said. "Champagne for New Year's Eve?"

"Sorry," McCoy said. "Scotch."

She raised her eyebrows. "Want me to pour you one?"

"Thanks," McCoy said.

He finished the drink in almost record speed and poured himself another.

"How was Christmas?" he asked her.

"Nice," Abbie said, and smiled. "Turkey made with an oven, not a telephone."

"Tom's mother raising the standards?" McCoy teased her.

"Actually his dad," Abbie said dryly. "So I'm thinking I'm okay on the kitchen front."

McCoy found his glass empty and reached for the bottle. Abbie took it out of his hand.

"You're the alcohol police now you're about to be a mother?" McCoy said.

Abbie looked down at her stomach and smiled reflexively and then looked back at McCoy. Her eyes narrowed. "Nice try at redirection," she said. "No, I'm not the alcohol police. Just – you're hitting it hard tonight."

"It's New Year's Eve," McCoy said.

"And you brought a bottle of whiskey, not a bottle of champagne. That's not 'New Year's Eve'. That's 'just lost a case'. You just lose a case, Jack?"

"No," McCoy said. He held out his hand for the bottle and after a second Abbie gave it to him.

"Then what is it?"

"It's nothing."

"I know you, Jack. It's not nothing. With you, it's never nothing."

McCoy tilted the bottle and then put it down without pouring. "I had some bad news about someone I knew."

"Jack, I'm sorry," Abbie said. "Family? Not – not Becky, is she – "

"Not family," McCoy reassured her. "Not bad news like that. Someone – someone we both know turned out to be someone else."

She looked at him through narrowed eyes. "That's not very enlightening. Someone turned out to be someone else? Like Dan Tenofsky?"

"Worse," McCoy said. "Dan lied to us all about one thing – about his education. Regan Markham has been lying to us all about _everything_."

"Regan?" Abbie asked, shocked.

"She said she went to Washington University. She _didn't_. She said she was a Seattle PD police officer. She _wasn't._ I have no idea who she is or where she comes from. I don't know if anything she ever told me bore any relationship to the truth. It doesn't seem to worry Arthur. He won't sack her. He shifted her sideways to Major Case."

Abbie held up her hands. "Whoa," she said. "From the top, Jack. Slowly."

He started to tell her about his discovery, about Regan's reaction, about Branch's. As he talked he felt himself getting angry all over again and found himself on his feet, pacing around the room, gesturing wildly with his empty glass. He told her about the trip to Carthage, about the confidences they'd shared in the car, about the stories Regan'd spun about a dead husband and a demanding great-grandfather, about time in uniform – a history spun out of whole cloth.

Abbie listened in silence from her seat on the couch.

"I don't know any more if she's a pathological liar or quite simply _insane_ ," McCoy finished, dropping back down on the couch. "Am I allowed to have another drink now?"

Abbie reached for the bottle. "Feel better getting that off your chest?"

"Yes," McCoy said, and then shook his head. "No. I don't – I never saw it coming."

"You're usually good at spotting a liar," Abbie said.

"Not this time. I was blindsided. I fell for – for everything. Every sad story, every – " He fell silent, tilting the scotch in his glass. "I can't believe I was so naïve."

"It seems so unbelievable," Abbie said.

"I know," McCoy said. "She seemed – so _genuine_."

"And now you're sure she's not," Abbie said.

He turned to look at her, stung by the skepticism he heard in her voice. "Yes," he said tightly. "Now I _know_ she's not."

"But why would she make all that up?"

"Attention? Sympathy? Insanity?" McCoy shrugged. "You tell me. _I'm_ obviously the _last_ person to ask about what's going on in Regan Markham's screwed-up head."

"It's just – I only met her those few times," Abbie said. "But she didn't seem like the kind of person to be making a play for sympathy." McCoy opened his mouth and she held up her hand. "You know what I mean. We've both seen them, defendants, victims. They're eager to get you onside. To get anyone onside. Regan – sounds like she didn't make all that stuff a topic of general conversation in the office. You had to drag it out of her."

"She's manipulative, no doubt about it," McCoy said.

"And now you say _she's_ mad at _you_?"

"Go figure," McCoy said.

"And Branch isn't angry with her?"

"The ways of Arthur Branch are a mystery to the rest of us mortals," McCoy said, finishing his drink in one gulp. "I called Personnel, all set to rip whoever didn't do due diligence a new one – and they told me that Arthur Branch personally ordered no inquiries on her application."

"It doesn't sound to me …" Abbie trailed off, and then plunged on. "It doesn't sound to me like you've got the whole story. It sounds like there's more going on."

"She could have told me the whole story," McCoy said angrily. "If there was one. There isn't. She _lied_ to me. _End_ of story."

"Okay," Abbie said, watching him pour himself another drink. "Okay. I'm sorry, Jack. I know – it's never good, when someone you trust lets you down."

McCoy shook his head. "I can't believe I fell for it," he marveled. "I can't believe she took me in."

"The great Jack McCoy," Abbie said a little sardonically. "Human lie detector. Finally proved to be only mortal. I'd understand it if she were a looker, Jack."

He shot her a sharp glance. "Thanks for the moral support."

Abbie laughed, and shifted her weight to lean against his shoulder. "I don't think that's in my skill-set, either," she said comfortably, and sighed. "I've missed you, Jack."

"You got married," he pointed out. "And three's a crowd."

"Family doesn't count," Abbie told him. "And you're family." She was silent a moment. "I'm glad you're here. The house – it's quiet at night. And I – it never used to bother me. But…." She put one hand protectively over her stomach. "Hormones, I guess."

McCoy set his glass down and put his arm around her shoulders. "Tom will be back stateside soon," he reassured her.

"I tell myself that all day," Abbie said softly. "And at night – at night I try not to think about all the reasons he might not be. Coffins come home every day, Jack."

"No, no, no," he said quickly, tightening his grip on her. "Not Tom. You're always telling me how careful he is, how professional, how well-trained. Don't talk yourself into worrying about things that will _never_ happen."

She sighed. "I'm glad you came over," she said again.

"You can always call," McCoy told her. "When the house gets too quiet."

"Mmmm," she said. "Makes me feel too much like some fragile flower who needs held getting a Daddy-Longlegs out of the bath."

"Hey, that's a tricky job," McCoy told her, and she chuckled.

After a moment he realized she had fallen asleep.

"Abbie," he said gently, patting her shoulder. "Abs, come on, wake up."

"Huh?"

"Bedtime," he told her.

She yawned. "Sorry," she said. "Guess I won't be watching them drop the ball at Times Square after all."

"Next year," McCoy told her. He stood up and offered her his hand. She let him pull her to her feet.

"Sure," she said. "It'll be the baby's first New Year, next year."

He steered her, still half-asleep, towards the stairs. She stopped half-way up and turned to look down at him. "You planning to take a cab?"

"Is that your subtle way of telling me I'm over-the-limit?" McCoy teased. "I think I'd be pushing my luck getting a cab tonight. I thought I might crash on your couch – if you don't mind."

"Never," Abbie assured him. "Blankets where they always are. I'd get them but – " A jaw-cracking yawn finished her sentence.

"I'm fine," McCoy said. "Good night. See you next year."

"Next year," Abbie echoed.

McCoy waited at the foot of the stairs until he heard her bedroom door close.

It wasn't the first time he'd had one or two or three too many and ended up spending the night at Abbie's, and he found the spare sheets and blankets in the hall cupboard, just as she'd said. Turning down the central heating and switching off lights, McCoy prepared himself for another sleepless night, _fifth in a row._ He contemplated the scotch, then decided against another. _Nice to start the New Year as the only person in New York City without a hangover_ , he thought, then wondered if Regan Markham was still in the office, if she had a glass of the scotch she kept in her bottom drawer beside her as she tried to compensate for what she'd done with sheer hard work and denial. He shook his head to clear away the image and lay down.

And then it was morning, grey dawn light creeping through the windows.

He started a pot of coffee and then wandered to the living-room window.

It had snowed in the night. A clean white blanket covered the street, shrouding the parked cars, unbroken except for a single track of wandering footprints that showed where a reveler had made their way unsteadily homeward.

_New year,_ McCoy thought. _How symbolic. New year, new page, fresh start._

_If you believe in fresh starts._

He shivered. _Turned the heating down too far_ , he told himself. _This house always loses more heat than you think it will. Better adjust the thermostat before Abbie wakes up._

He stayed at the window a moment longer, looking out at the familiar world made strange overnight. _New year. Clean slate._

_Right._

* * *

.oOo.


	27. All Fall Down

_Courthouse_

_8.15 am Tuesday January 2_ _nd_ _2007_

* * *

The big detective from Major Case - _Robert Goren_ , Regan reminded herself - and his partner were at the foot of the courthouse steps as Regan followed Carver and Chuck Johnson towards the courthouse.

"Mr Carver, I need - " Goren started to say.

Carver shook his head without breaking stride. "Not now, detective," he said. "I'm due in chambers. Have you seen Detective Wheeler?"

"Up there," Regan said, indicating the top of the steps.

"Good," Carver said, as they hurried up the stairs. "We might need her to tell the judge how she executed the search. Have you got the precedents?"

She nodded. "Right here," she assured him, patting her briefcase where she had all the legal arguments to support their case for keeping Whitford's financial records in.

He glanced at her. "I thought I told you Major Case had certain standards, Ms Markham."

She realized he was looking at her shabby coat. "Yes, sir, Mr. Carver, it's – we didn't get to coats, is all, but I'm – "

"Take it off before the judge sees you and thinks I've taken to recruiting second chairs from the homeless shelter."

Regan felt cheeks burn. "Yes, sir," she said, tucking her briefcase under her arm and trying to shrug out of her coat as she hurried beside him up the steps.

Ahead of them, Chuck turned, walking backward. "Need a hand, Ms Markham?" he asked.

"Got it," Regan said. With one arm out of her coat she realized her cell was still in the pocket and tried to fumble it out. It slipped from her fingers and as she tried to catch it her briefcase followed.

"Damn!" she said, and stopped for a second, hastily shedding her coat. As she bent to pick up her briefcase Carver stooped for her phone.

"Phht," he said, and something wet and warm spattered Regan's face.

"Wha – ?" she started to say, and then her brain caught up and she realized she'd heard _phht_ silenced gunshot and her face was full of blood and she went facedown on the steps with her coat and her cell and her briefcase under her and looked up to see Chuck with blood pumping and pumping out of the artery in his neck as his eyes rolled and he tried to get his hands over the wound and she scrambled forward to reach him as the blood gave one last gush and his eyes went blank and he went still, still, _still_.

She reached for her gun but there was nothing at her waist, squirmed around to see who was screaming but everybody was screaming and running and she could taste blood and Carver was face down beside her with the big detective from Major Case lying over him and _phht_ another shot.

"Go!" the detective ordered her and she scrambled to her feet and ran up the steps for shelter, chest aching, struggling for breath, tasting blood and feeling the gun-sight centered on her back, running for the portico, trying to outrun a bullet, not looking back.

* * *

Ron Carver heard the noise and half turned to see what it was, turned back to see Charles Johnson on the steps bleeding and Regan Markham face down beside him, thought _gunshot_ and then something hit him and he was down on the steps half-smothered by the weight of the big man lying across him.

"Down, down," Robert Goren said, covering Carver with his body, and Carver had an instant to be deeply, bitterly ashamed he'd ever said a harsh word to this man who'd thrown himself between Carver and a bullet without hesitation. "Okay, come on, go."

Carver felt himself hauled to his feet and pushed forward. He ran up the steps, hearing Goren behind him, stepping over Johnson's body. Goren took him by the shoulder as they reached the portico and steered him left, shoved him in between the pillars into a corner and turned, gun out and up.

Past Goren's shoulder Carver could see Megan Wheeler, also with her gun out and up.

"Eames," Carver said.

"After the shooter," Goren said tersely. They waited. After a minute Goren let out a breath. "He's gone."

Wheeler nodded and then coughed, gagging. _In the line of fire twice in a month_ , Carver thought. Wheeler gagged again and spat to the side without lowering her gun or turning her attention from the empty portico in front of her.

"Where's Markham?" Carver asked.

"I saw her ahead of me," Wheeler volunteered. "Just behind you."

"Was she hit?"

"She was bloody. But so are you."

Carver looked down. Johnson's blood was sprayed over his coat. "Charles," he said.

"I'm sorry," Goren said. "It was – there was nothing to be done."

"Why would anyone want to shoot Charles?" Carver wondered.

"They didn't," Goren said. "You bent down. If you hadn't, that shot would have hit you in the head."

Carver thought about that.

"You saved my life, detective." he said to Goren.

"It's a living, counselor," Goren said, but he said it kindly.

Running footsteps came towards them and they all tensed until a couple of uniformed officers came around the corner.

"Everybody all right?" one of them asked.

"One down on the steps," Goren said, and the cop nodded. "We get him?"

"Not that I heard," the cop said. "Come on. We're getting the civilians clear. Come on."

* * *

"Mr. McCoy!" Colleen cried. McCoy looked up as she ran into his office. "The TV, turn on – "

He reached for the remote but she grabbed it before he did and hit a button. The set crackled on and he saw a reporter on the steps of the courthouse.

". .. in a shocking outbreak of violence here at the heart of the city's criminal justice system," the reporter was saying. A subscript scrolled across the bottom of the screen, _one confirmed dead in courthouse shooting_. McCoy tore his eyes from the words and looked back at the picture, at the plastically handsome young man standing on the courthouse steps by a pool of blood and a discarded coat. "The courthouse is locked down as police evacuate the area. The hunt for the killer goes on."

"Do we know who?" McCoy asked harshly.

Colleen shook her head. "I heard Mr. Branch – I heard him – I think it's one of us, Mr. McCoy. I think it's a prosecutor."

McCoy fumbled through the papers on his desk, looking for the day's hearings. "Damn it, where – "

"Farrelly, Micklin, Grant," Colleen said, guessing what he was looking for. "That's Mr. Cutter, Ms Danielson, Mr. Williams, Mr. Chen. I have Sarah calling them."

"Check," McCoy ordered her. Colleen nodded and hurried to the door. She was back in a moment, her face flushed with relief.

"They're all okay," she told him. "Sarah talked to all of them. None of them were there."

McCoy stared at the screen, at the reporter, the blood, the faded green coat. "Colleen," he said quietly. "What about chamber hearings?"

"Chambers – " she faltered.

Cold and very calm, McCoy found the paper he'd been looking for. He knew what he'd read before he even picked it up. _People v Whitford, motion to exclude._

He picked up the phone carefully and dialed a number. The phone rang at the other end of the line. And rang.

"Oh my god," Colleen breathed on one single rush of breath. "Oh, Mr. McCoy, oh my god."

'What?" McCoy asked, receiver still to his ear, listening to the ringing at the other end. _Pick up, Regan, pick up. Pick up._

"Are you ringing Mr. Carver's cell?" Colleen asked, white faced.

"Ms Markham's," McCoy said. _Pick up the phone. Pick up the phone._

_"Jack, it's Adam. Pick up the phone."_

Wordlessly Colleen pointed at the screen.

" _Jack. Pick up the phone. There's been an accident. It's Claire."_

On the steps behind the reporter, by the swathe and smear of blood, a cell phone vibrated and flashed.

_"You need to come to the hospital, Jack. Pick up the phone."_

McCoy depressed the cradle of his phone with one finger, eyes still on the screen. As the ringing in his ear was replaced with a dial tone, the phone on the steps of the courthouse went still.

" _Have you heard from Ricci?" Abbie asked. "She's not answering her cell."_

Very carefully, he pressed redial, and watched as Regan's cell phone began to ring again, the vibration pushing it closer and closer to the pool of blood.

_"We've found a car," Anita Van Buren said._

He hung up before it got that far.

" _Jack_ , _it's Mike Logan. He's been shot. It looks bad."_

"Oh, Mr. McCoy," Colleen said, in tears. "Oh, my god, Mr. McCoy."

_"Goddamn it Jack, pick up the phone!"_

"Colleen," Sarah said from the doorway. "Colleen, I just put Captain Ross through to Mr. Branch."

McCoy found himself pushing past Colleen, opening the door to Branch's office. Branch looked up, face grave.

"Yes, I understand. Of course this office will co-operate. Yes. Keep me posted." He hung up. "Jack, there was an incident at the courthouse – "

"A shooting," McCoy said. He could barely recognize his own voice.

"Captain Ross says they think the shooter was aiming at Ron Carver. Just good luck he bent over to pick something up at the precise moment. They've bundled Carver off to a safe-house, but they're going to put out a statement saying he was injured and taken to hospital – put a cop in a bed with plainclothes all around. Maybe this son-of-a-bitch will try again and they can nail him."

"Regan Markham?" McCoy asked.

"Miss Markham?" Branch asked.

"You sent her work on Whitford with Carver," McCoy said harshly. "She was there on the steps. They said on the news that someone was killed."

"A paralegal," Branch said. "A young man."

"Then what happened to Regan?" McCoy demanded.

"Ross didn't mention her," Branch said. "Which must mean she's fine."

"Her coat is lying on the courthouse steps in a pool of blood," McCoy said.

Branch looked shaken. "Ross said they secured the area," he said. "But it's chaos down there still. I'm going to go down and – "

"I'll come with you," McCoy interrupted.

"Jack …" Branch said, then shook his head and sighed. "Then get your coat."

Branch spent most of the short ride on his phone. McCoy looked out the window at people going about their ordinary day-to-day business, unaware of how quickly things could change. _In a New York minute_ , he thought. _With a gun shot. With a red light. With the wrong person at the wrong door._

_And nothing is ever the same again._

A uniformed officer met them at the bottom of the stairs. "Mr. Branch," he said. "Mr. McCoy. Captain Ross told me to keep you informed. We have one confirmed dead, Mr. Charles Johnson. A defense lawyer was injured with a ricochet – she made it into the building and we found her when we started clearing the floors. We're still working our way through the building but we have confirmed sightings of the shooter heading south a couple of blocks away and the area is locked down, so I think we're okay. As I said, we've sent an ambulance to Mercy with 'Mr. Carver'.

"Anyone else?" McCoy asked. "Anyone else hurt?"

"Just those two," the officer said, surprised.

"That you know of," McCoy said.

"Jack," Branch said, but McCoy ignored him and hurried up the steps, checking his pace only slightly as he passed Regan's discarded coat and the blood beside it, both now surrounded by forensic techs.

An officer tried to stop him as he reached the doors but McCoy flashed his DA's badge and went on. The halls were almost empty, and the unusual quiet made them seem colder, the marble harder, than usual. McCoy strode from empty courtroom to empty courtroom, his footsteps echoing loudly, pushing the doors open with increasing impatience, each one revealing only an empty room.

He hurried up the stairs. _Nothing_.

Rounding a corner, he saw a woman sitting on one of the long wooden benches, beige skirt and cream sweater a glowing contrast to the dark wood and to the rusty blood splashes on them. He hurried towards her to ask her if she'd seen Regan Markham, and only as he almost reached her did he realize it _was_ Regan Markham.

She sat slumped in the corner of the bench, propped against the back and arm, head tipped back to rest against the wall, eyes closed in her white, bloodied face. Her hands lay limp by her sides, one turned palm up, the other down. Her feet were turned in, toes touching, one pump half-off and askew.

McCoy could not tell if she was breathing.

"Regan," he said, willing her to move. In that moment he could not have cared less _where_ her law degree was from, or even if she had one, or where she came from, or who she was. _Be breathing_ , _Regan. Please, be breathing._ "Regan. _Regan!_ "

* * *

.oOo.


	28. Cold As It Gets

"Regan," McCoy said. "Regan. _Regan!"_

It seemed a very long time until her eyes opened. She looked at him blankly for a second and then an expression of profound relief lit her eyes. "Jack," she whispered, not moving.

McCoy sat down beside her. "Are you hurt?" he asked.

"No," Regan said, and then corrected herself. "I don't think so."

At closer range, McCoy could see the blood on her sweater and skirt was sprayed rather than the deep stains that would have come from a wound. _And no bullet holes_.

"Someone shot Chuck," Regan told him, sounding puzzled.

"I know," McCoy said, and took her hand in both his. It was cold and clammy.

"I fell down," she said in the same tone of child-like confusion, and then her lower lip quivered and tears came to her eyes. "On the steps. When someone shot Chuck." She began to shiver violently, teeth chattering.

McCoy quickly took off his coat and put it around her shoulders. "You need a doctor," he said. "I'm going to find one. You wait here, okay?"

"No, Jack –" Regan said. "Don't go." She clutched at his arm, and then a shadow came into her eyes and she let go and looked down. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I forgot."

McCoy took her hand again and put his other arm around her shoulders. "Shh," he said. "Don't worry about it right now. Come on. Let's find you some help."

Obediently she let him help her up. He guided her back down the steps, steadying her as she struggled for breath, one hand pressed to her side. "Did you fall hard?" he asked her.

"Don't remember," Regan said distantly. "Don't know."

Just outside the front doors, McCoy stopped and looked around for the EMTs. He couldn't see them. He did, however, see Arthur Branch striding towards them.

"You found her," Branch said. "Are you hurt, Miss Markham?"

"No," Regan said.

"Good," Branch said. "Good. I'm about to do a press conference to reassure the city we'll find and prosecute and convict this son-of-a-bitch. If you aren't hurt, you can stand next to me and give the crime a human face."

"I don't think I can, Mr. Branch," Regan said faintly.

"Young lady, I have done you a fair few favors in the past year and now is the time for you to start repaying them. So pull yourself together – and take off that frightful jacket before you give half Manhattan the idea that you are one more of my EADA's office romances."

Regan looked down at McCoy's coat and began to pull it off.

"Don't be too long about it," Branch said, and strode back towards the TV cameras.

"Here," Regan said numbly, holding McCoy's coat out to him.

"Are you okay?" McCoy asked her.

"I don't know how to do this," she whispered.

"You don't have to," McCoy said, angry. "He can't fire you for not doing a press conference – in these circumstances!"

"Ask Serena what he can fire an ADA for," Regan said. "I can't say no. But I don't know how to do this."

McCoy looked closely at her and saw that he wasn't going to able to talk her out of it.

"It's like a courtroom," he told her. "It's like sitting second chair. Look at Arthur. Look attentive and serious, like you're looking at me making my closing. Know what you're going to say. Be ready."

"I'm going to have to say something?" Regan asked forlornly

"They'll probably ask. You'll be standing right there – and it's TV news. He's the DA. You're a pretty girl covered in blood. No prizes for guessing what they'll want to lead with."

"What should I say?"

"Tell them your thoughts are with your colleagues and their families. Their pursuit of justice has been an inspiration. You know the NYPD will be equally dedicated to finding the criminal."

Regan nodded, lips moving as she repeated his words to herself, and then went slowly down the steps to stand at Branch's side.

McCoy followed her at a distance and stood off to the side as Branch made all the appropriate noises for a politician seeking re-election on a law-and-order platform. He drew their attention to Regan, pointing out that she'd barely escaped with her life, gave them the agreed story on Carver, and then asked for questions.

The reporters all started shouting at once.

"Ms Markham! Ms Markham! Do you have anything to say?"

McCoy watched as Regan lifted her chin a little and looked across the reporters, holding their eyes one by one, as if they were jurors in the box. "My thoughts and prayers are with my colleagues and their families," she said clearly. "Their pursuit of justice has been an inspiration. I know the NYPD will be just as dedicated to find the criminal who has done this terrible thing. And I know they will succeed."

"That's all, folks," Branch said, and steered Regan away from the cameras.

McCoy caught up with them as Captain Ross did. "Ms Markham, we need your statement."

"Can you take it back at the office?" McCoy suggested.

Ross hesitated, and then nodded. "I'll send Wheeler up," he said.

"Tenth floor," McCoy told him. He turned to see Branch already putting Regan into the backseat of the DA's town car. As he hurried after them Branch shut the door on her and turned.

"Maybe you should walk back, Jack," Branch said.

McCoy stared at him.

"Spend the time reviewing some of the conversations we've had about professional conduct appropriate to senior staff in supervisory positions," Branch said pointedly.

"Arthur, that's completely unfounded," McCoy snapped.

"Maybe so," Arthur said. "And as your boss, I have a vested interest in making sure it stays that way." He strode around to the other side of the car.

"Arthur, jumping to conclusions because I show concern for a colleague caught in crossfire is unworthy, even of you," McCoy said angrily, not caring who might hear him. "I didn't get this lecture from you when Serena – "

"Sapphic Serena was never that kind of problem," Branch said.

"If this is so high up your list of issues, maybe you shouldn't have sacked the only lesbian I worked with," McCoy retorted.

"Get your eyes checked, Jack," Branch said steadily. "You just don't seem to be able to see the line at all these days. _Walk back_."

He got in the car and it pulled away before McCoy could frame another response.

* * *

Megan Wheeler took another swig of coffee, hoping to clear the taste of bile from her mouth. She was careful not to think about that moment on the steps when she'd seen Carver bend forward and blood explode from Charles Johnson's neck –

_Logan takes another step backward, gesturing to her, mouth open to speak and then mouth just open, going down, and she sees blood and reaches for him, reaches, reaches …_

It was a nightmare she already knew she'd have for the rest of her life, Logan going down just out of reach of her clutching hands and herself _falling over him with her gun out looking left and right and behind her for the shooter and trying all the while to keep her body over Mike's as the blood oozes hot through his shirt and soaks through hers until it's sticky on her skin –_

She had done everything she was supposed to do. She had gotten her radio out and called it in, calmly and collectedly – or so she had thought until she heard the tape of the radio call and heard herself screaming _Ten-thirteen-ten-thirteen-prince-street-ten-thirteen!_ until her voice cracked. She had tried to stop the blood, had tried to keep Logan from going into shock, talked to him, tried to keep him awake, seeing the color draining from his face until his eyes went blank and fixed and –

 _Enough, Wheeler_ , she told herself, pushing the button for the tenth floor. _Enough. Work to do._

_Decide what kind of cop you're going to be._

_The kind who gets it done. Every time. No matter what._

"Detective Wheeler. I'm looking for Regan Markham," she told the middle-aged woman at the desk outside Arthur Branch's office.

"She went to the restroom," the woman said. "To get changed."

"I'll wait," Wheeler said.

The woman hesitated. "Detective … she went a while ago." Wheeler could hear worry in her voice.

She finished her coffee and tossed the cardboard cup in the trash. "Which way?"

"End of the hall, on the left," the woman said, looking relieved.

She found the door marked 'Ladies' and listened for a moment. Silence inside, then a thump. Another one, louder.

Wheeler knocked on the door. "Ms Markham?" she called. "Ms Markham, can I come in?"

"One minute," came the response, in a strangled voice Wheeler couldn't recognize as Regan Markham's. "Just one minute."

Another bang behind the door.

"Ms Markham, I'm coming in," Wheeler said, and opened the door.

Regan Markham was standing by the sinks, back to the wall. She had her bloodied sweater pulled up to her shoulders, about to yank it over her head. Wheeler was shocked to immobility for an instant to see Regan's bare stomach, puckered pink scars that could only have come from bullets, each surrounded by the thin precise lines left by a surgeon's knife.

As she hesitated, Regan hauled at the sweater, pulling it up past her neck, then froze with it almost at her face. Rigid, straining, she was motionless a long few seconds and then gasped, jerking her head away from the blood hard enough to hit the wall. _Thump_.

"Ms Markham, stop," Wheeler said.

"I've got to get this off," Regan said in the same tight strangled tone. "I've got to – " She yanked at the sweater again and again baulked at the point where she'd have to drag the bloody wool over her face. "Oh, god. I've got to get this off. Please." Again, she pulled the sweater up, again jerked her head away convulsively. "I've got to get this off."

"Okay, hold still. Hold still," Wheeler said. She crossed the room and tried to pull the neck of the sweater wide enough to get it over Regan's face.

"No," Regan said desperately, twisting away. "No."

"Ms Markham, I'm trying – " Wheeler said helplessly. She tried to ease the sweater past Regan's face again and again Regan flinched away hard enough to slam her head against the wall. "Ms Markham, just hold still, I can't – "

Regan pushed her away and turned to the sink. She braced herself against the porcelain. "Get me some scissors," she said hoarsely.

"Okay," Wheeler said, thinking _Should have thought of that, Wheeler, god, you're fuckin' useless_ , hearing it in Mike Logan's voice.

She hurried out into the hall, looking for someone who'd have access to stationery, and grabbed the arm of the nearest lawyer. "I need scissors," she said. "Big ones – not nail scissors." He hurried away and Wheeler turned in a circle, wishing she knew what to do, wishing –

"Megan," a familiar voice said, and she turned to see Lennie Briscoe.

"Lennie, thank god," she said in a rush. "What are you doing here?"

"I heard someone took a shot at you," Briscoe said.

Wheeler shook her head. "Not at me. At ADA Carver. I was nearby, that's all."

"Well, I came to make sure you were all right," Briscoe said. "You're Mike's partner. I wanted to see for myself."

Wheeler thought she could hear an edge in his voice but she ignored it. "Well, thank god, Lennie. I came to take Ms Markham's statement – but she's – she's upset – I don't know – "

"Okay, calm down," Briscoe said. "Is she hurt?"

Wheeler shook her head. The lawyer came back with the scissors and Wheeler took them. "She's – you'll see. Please."

She opened the door again to see Regan standing where she'd left her, leaning over the sink, braced so rigidly the tendons stood out in her arms and neck. "Have you got the scissors?" she demanded.

"Yes," Wheeler said, and then Briscoe moved her aside.

"Hey there, counselor," he said.

Regan turned her head with an effort. "I have to get this off," she explained. Abruptly she spun away, pulling at the sweater, wrestling with it, and once more freezing at the last minute, fighting herself, jaw locked, until she gave up and slammed her hands against the mirror. "I have to get this off!"

"Take it easy, honey," Briscoe said. He went to her and caught her hands before she could try again. "Take it easy. Uncle Lennie and Megan are going to take care of it, right, Megan?"

"Yes," Wheeler said awkwardly.

"Thank you," Regan whispered, eyes filling with tears.

"It's okay now, Regan," Briscoe said. "Uncle Lennie's here."

She gave a sob, then another, and then was crying uncontrollably. Briscoe put his arms around her and drew her away from the sink to lean against his chest. She cried harder, knees buckling. Briscoe lowered her to the floor, crouching down with her. He beckoned to Wheeler, and she took a step forward, hovering uncertainly.

"Regan, honey, Megan's going to cut your sweater off, okay?" Briscoe said. "You don't mind Uncle Lennie seeing you with your gear off, do you? Megan's here to chaperone me if I get any ideas."

Regan gave a gasp of laughter in amidst her tears and shook her head.

"Okay, hold still, just hold still. We got you, honey."

Briscoe held Regan and gentled her and talked to her as Wheeler hurriedly cut the sweater up the back, suppressing a gasp at the lumps of scar tissue – _must be exit wounds_.

"Now turn over, there's a good girl," Briscoe said soothingly, shifting Regan around in his arms until Megan could draw the sweater down and off. "Megan's going to get your shirt, honey, but we're just going to get you cleaned up, first, okay?"

Regan glanced down and saw the blood that had soaked through her sweater to her skin. She whimpered and Briscoe drew her head back to his shoulder. "No need to look, honey. Just hold on. Megan. Megan!"

"Right," Wheeler said, hastily grabbing a handful of paper towels and soaking them in the sink. She wiped away the blood as quickly and carefully as she could and then grabbed more towels to dry Regan off.

"Now get the shirt from the door," Briscoe told her, and Wheeler realized for the first time that there was a clean shirt and jacket hanging on the inside of the door. She rushed to grab them, holding first the shirt, then the jacket, as Briscoe helped Regan into them. "There you go," he said when he'd finished buttoning them up. "Good as new."

Regan looked down and took a deep, shaky breath. "Good as new," she said, her voice trembling but sounding at last more like herself.

"You're going to need to wash your face, though," Briscoe told her. "You look like Tammy Faye Baker in a swimming pool."

Regan wiped her eyes and looked at the mascara smeared on her fingers. "Right," she said. She started to get up and Wheeler helped her as Briscoe got stiffly to his feet. "Thanks, Lennie."

"What are friends for?" Briscoe asked, smiling. Regan managed to return his smile, lips trembling, and then flung her arms around his neck. Wheeler looked at her feet as Briscoe returned Regan's embrace, rocking her gently back and forth. "You're going to be okay, now, honey," he told her. "Wheeler's going to take your statement, and then Uncle Lennie's going to make sure you get home. Okay?"

Reluctantly, Regan let go of him and stepped back. "Okay," she said, took a deep breath, and repeated more confidently: "Okay."

When the three of them came out of the restroom they had a little audience of ADAs. Wheeler realized that Regan's racking sobs must have been clearly audible through the door. She caught the eye of one of the looky-loos and gave him her best eye-fuck. He found urgent reason to be elsewhere and Wheeler raked the rest of the crowd with the same look. They scattered.

Wheeler turned to usher Regan down towards her office and caught, for the first time that day, a hint of approval in Briscoe's eyes. It warmed her. _I might not be able to deal with witnesses and relatives_ , she thought, _but I can put the fear of god into morons, no problem._

When they passed Jack McCoy standing in his office doorway, Wheeler wasn't quite brave enough to try putting the fear of god into _him_. She gave him an inquiring look, however, one eyebrow up, _Can I help you there sir?_ He wasn't looking at her, though, and she didn't think he saw it.

She took Regan's statement as quickly and painlessly as possible. Briscoe left them for a few minutes and came back with a steaming cup he gave to Regan. Wheeler could smell the coffee, and when Regan's hands steadied and her color started to improve she guessed Briscoe had loaded it with sugar. _I should have thought of that, too_ , she thought.

It didn't take long, in the end. Regan hadn't seen much. Wheeler read back her notes and Regan nodded at each sentence. Finally Wheeler closed her notebook. "Can you come to the station tomorrow to sign this when it's typed up?"

"Sure," Regan said.

"Okay, honey," Briscoe said. "Let's get you home. Megan, have you got your car?" When Wheeler nodded, he put his hand under Regan's elbow and urged her to her feet. "Then let's make tracks, okay?"

In the hall, he stopped. "Wait a minute," he said to Regan. "You need your coat."

"I dropped it – when – when they shot Chuck. I dropped it." She looked around helplessly.

"You can borrow mine," Briscoe said, starting to take it off.

"No, hold on." Wheeler realized McCoy was still in his doorway. "Hold on," he said again, and disappeared into his office. He came back a moment later holding a woman's red coat. "Here. Take this."

"I hope your girlfriend doesn't mind," Briscoe said sardonically, taking the coat from him and holding it for Regan to put on.

McCoy smiled humorlessly. "Nora left it behind her office door when she left. I guess Branch didn't think it was his color. I've been meaning to give it back to Nora, but I'm sure she'd be happy to lend it in a good cause."

Briscoe nodded, and Wheeler thought she could see a silent apology in his face.

"I'll bring it back tomorrow," Regan promised.

"Don't come in if you don't feel up to it," McCoy said, and when Regan looked at the ground, "Regan. I mean it."

She nodded mutely.

"Okay, let's go," Briscoe said.

When they got to Wheeler's car, he held out his hand for her keys, and when she'd given them to him he unlocked the car and settled Regan into the back seat. He got in behind the wheel and Wheeler went around to the other side and got in beside him.

He looked at her in silence for a moment and then shook his head. "You know what, Wheeler, maybe you should drive."

"Okay," she said, surprised, and got out to change places with him. Instead of swapping with her, Briscoe got in the back with Regan, and Wheeler blushed. _I should have thought of that_. She cleared her throat. "Which way?"

"Broadway Breslin," Briscoe told her.

Wheeler pulled out into the traffic and they rode in silence. After a while she started to find it oppressive, and punched on the radio. A woman's plaintive voice whispered out of the speakers, singing about sad stories on the side of the road, about a cold as cold as it gets, a darkness darker than cold.

"Megan, can you turn that off?" Briscoe said.

She hit the button and glanced in the rear-view mirror. Regan was hunched in on herself, shivering, and Briscoe met Wheeler's gaze in the mirror with exasperation written plain on his face.

 _Should have thought of that_ , Wheeler thought miserably. "Sorry," she said.

"Sure," Briscoe said shortly.

They pulled up at the Breslin.

"Thanks," Regan said, reaching for her door handle.

"You okay?" Wheeler asked. "Want us to walk you up?"

"No, I'm fine," Regan said, and Wheeler nodded.

"Regan, honey, I'm going to walk you up," Briscoe said firmly.

Wheeler sat in silence with the engine running until Briscoe came back. He got in the passenger side and shut the door hard.

"Megan," he said, "Don't take this the wrong way, but there are some parts of this job you really need to work on."

Wheeler swallowed. "I know," she admitted in a small voice. "I'm no good with – with live people. Victims. Relatives. Mike was always the one who did that. He was good with people."

"He _is_ good with people," Briscoe corrected her.

Wheeler felt her nose start to prickle with tears. She blinked hard and shook her head.

Briscoe turned to look at her. "Megan, what is it?"

"He died, Lennie!" she burst out. "Before the ambulance got there. He died! I was holding on to him and talking to him and trying to stop the blood and he just – he _died_." A sob tore through her and she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth.

"But he's not dead," Briscoe said.

"But he _died_!" Wheeler said.

Briscoe sighed, and reached over to put his hand on the back of her neck. "Megan," he said. "I'm going to tell you something and I want you to listen very carefully, okay? Can you do that?"

"Yes," Wheeler said, and sniffed hard. "I'm listening."

"Snap out of it," Briscoe said firmly. Wheeler turned to look at him in surprise. "I mean it, honey. An awful, awful thing happened to Mike and an awful, awful thing happened to you, and nobody needs to go through that, but, Megan, honey, _Mike's not dead_. Dead is when they don't come back. I know dead. Mike's heart might have stopped beating for a little while but it was temporary. And dead ain't temporary."

"But – he – I felt him – _I felt him go_."

Briscoe shook her a little, gently. "So you don't come to the hospital," he said. "Because he died in your arms."

Wheeler sniffled and nodded.

"Mike is going to kick your ass for being such an idiot," Briscoe said.

And just like that, Wheeler knew it was true. Mike _was_ going to kick her ass. She began to cry in earnest, fat salty tears of relief. _Mike is going to kick my ass. My ass is going to be kicked by Mike._

"Out," Briscoe said. He took the keys from her and shooed her into the passenger seat. "I'm driving."

"Where are we going?" Wheeler asked.

"Mercy," Briscoe said, and as he said it Wheeler couldn't wait to be there.

* * *

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song playing in the car is "Cold As It Gets", by Patty Griffin.


	29. Hold On To What You Got

_Mercy General_

_Tuesday January 2_ _nd_ _2007_

* * *

When they got to the hospital Wheeler outpaced Briscoe and had to wait for him at the doors, almost hopping from foot to foot with impatience. The elevator took _forever_ to arrive and when it did, it took _forever_ get to the right floor. When the doors opened Wheeler charged out, and Briscoe had to point out to her that she was going in the wrong direction.

"Here," he said, leading her to the right door.

Wheeler hesitated, hand on the doorknob. Briscoe sighed, and reached past her to open it. He put his hand in the small of her back and gave her a firm shove. "In," he said.

Logan was sleeping. Wheeler looked at him in silence for a moment. He looked – _terrible_. His face was half-hidden by an oxygen mask, but Wheeler could still see new lines around his mouth and eyes.

He looked terrible, but he looked alive. Wheeler pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat down, resting her hand over his, feeling the warmth of his skin, watching the rise and fall of his chest.

"You want coffee?" Briscoe asked her.

"I'm okay," Wheeler told him.

"I'm gonna get some," Briscoe said. "You'll be alright on your own."

It wasn't a question but Wheeler nodded anyway.

She sat alone with Logan. After a while he opened his eyes.

She could just see through the mask that he was smiling. "There you are," he said faintly. "I been wondering where they had you locked up."

"Mike, I'm so sorry," Wheeler blurted, and burst into tears. She bent over and put her face against his hand, sobbing too hard to speak.

"Oh, Jesus," Logan said. With a visible effort, he reached his other hand across the bed and rested it on the top of her head. "Fuckin' rookies, I tell ya."

She snuffled with laughter and began to hiccup. "I'm sorry, Mike, I should have come sooner."

"Yeah, I'm .. gonna .. kick your … ass .. when they let me … ofa this bed." His eyelids drooped. "I gotta … close my eyes … a sec … gotta talk to you. Don't go nowhere."

"No way, Mike," Wheeler said earnestly, and hiccupped.

Logan fell asleep again, smiling.

She was sitting by the bed, holding Logan's hand with one hand and wiping tears from her cheeks with the other, when the door opened. She looked up, expecting to see Briscoe, but instead Gina Lowe came into the room.

_Oh, shit_ , Wheeler thought, thinking about what _she'd_ think if she came into a room and found some other woman at her lover's bedside. "Gina," she said. I was – I just – "

"I'm glad you could come," Gina said, smiling. "Mike's been asking for you."

"Yeah," the man himself whispered. "Worried ... what you'd get up to … no-one to keep you out of trouble."

"Lennie's been doing fine on that front," Wheeler told him.

"Heard you got … _shot_ at … today," Logan said.

"Not me. Someone took a shot at Ron Carver," Wheeler said. "Missed him."

"Ron Carver …" Logan murmured. "There's a blast from the past." He closed his eyes again. Wheeler thought he'd gone back to sleep but he roused again. "Leonie Fraser," he said.

"Goren and Eames are looking into it," Wheeler told him.

Logan shook his head a little. "No..." he said. "Listen. The case … Fraser." His eyes started to close and he blinked hard, fighting sleep. "The case … south …"

"Don't worry," Wheeler told him, "We won't let the case go south. Don't worry."

"No…" Logan murmured. His eyes closed. "No … south … south…" His voice trailed away and he was out.

"Mike?" Wheeler said. "What do you mean? Mike?"

"Don't," Gina said softly. "I'm sorry, Megan, but he's still so weak. Don't wake him again."

Wheeler nodded. "Okay," she said. _It's not important. Mike's full of drugs. He probably doesn't know what he's saying._ "Okay." _South. South what?"_

_Probably nothing._

She sat for a moment longer, holding Logan's hand.

_South…_

" _Mike always says you have good instincts," Briscoe says._

"I've got to go," she said abruptly. She slipped her hand free of Logan's. "I need to – check something. Tell Mike – " She paused. "Tell him I'll be back soon."

"I'll say all the right things," Gina assured her, smiling, and Wheeler was surprised to realize she had faith that Gina would.

She passed Briscoe in the hall.

"Leaving already?" Briscoe asked.

"I gotta run something down," she told him. "You okay to get home?"

"Yeah, go on," Briscoe said. "Unless you need a hand – ?"

"Nah, it's probably nothing," Wheeler said. "Waste of time. Just – "

"You go on, then," Briscoe said. "Call if you need to."

"Sure, Lennie," Wheeler said, realizing that she meant it.

In her car, she pulled out her cell and found a number.

"Goren," a familiar voice answered.

"It's Wheeler," she told him. "I had a question – about Leonie Fraser."

"What?" Goren asked. A rustle told her he'd covered the receiver with his palm. "… Wheeler…" she heard him tell someone.

"Does the word 'south' mean anything to you?" Wheeler asked. There was a silence at the end of the line and she found herself holding her breath, waiting for him to say, _Sure, of course,_ waiting for the famous instincts of the famous Detective Goren to solve the puzzle.

"No," he said. "No, I don't think so."

_Dammit._ "Where are the case files?" she asked.

"Carver's office," Goren said. "What's going on, Wheeler?"

"Probably nothing," Wheeler said. "Mike said something."

"You saw Mike?" Goren asked, and Wheeler wasn't sure if the surprise in his voice was really there or if it was her imagination.

"Yeah, I saw Mike," she said. "He said 'Leonie Fraser. South'. I thought you might know what he meant."

"No idea," Goren said. "Do you want us to meet you at Hogan Place?"

Half of her wanted to say _Yes_. _Meet me. Help me._ Goren and Eames were real detectives, experienced. Goren was maybe a genius. Eames was the kind of tough-as-nails cop Wheeler wished she had a chance of becoming.

_My partner. My hunch._

_Got to learn to fly on your own sometime, baby bird._

"Nah," she said. "Probably nothing."

"Let us know," Goren said.

"Sure," Wheeler said, and hung up.

One Hogan Place was nearly empty by the time she got there. Carver's office was locked – _of course it is_ – and there was no-one in sight she could ask to let her in. She thought about ringing up to the tenth floor and asking Regan Markham to find someone for her before she remembered that Regan Markham wouldn't be there.

She thought about who would have the authority to open the office, dialed a number on her cell before she had the chance to back out.

"Mr. Branch's office," a woman's voice said.

Wheeler made her voice cool and professional. "This is Detective Megan Wheeler from Major Case," she said. "I need access to ADA Carver's office. Is Mr. Branch there?"

"He's left for the day," the woman said. "But hold on, let me get someone for you."

A moment, and then: "Jack McCoy."

"Mr. McCoy, this is Detective Megan Wheeler of Major Case," she repeated. "Can you get someone to let me into Ron Carver's office, please?"

"Why?" McCoy asked. He sounded busy, distracted and impatient.

"I need to check something in his files," Wheeler said.

"To do with the shooting?" McCoy sounded suddenly more interested.

"Yes," Wheeler said.

"Why isn't your Captain calling me?" McCoy asked.

_Damn_. Wheeler bit her lip, decided on honesty. "It's a hunch, sir. That's all. Not a lead."

A long pause. "Okay," McCoy said, surprising her. "I'll call security."

_That easy_ , Wheeler marveled. _As if I were a real detective who might really have a real hunch._

_Snap out of it. You_ _**are** _ _a real detective. You might not be Mike Logan or Alex Eames but you have a gold shield. That's proof you're a detective. So_ _**detect** _ _._

Two hours later, Wheeler was less sure. She put her head in her hands and stared at the pages she'd spread out over Carver's desk. _Leonie Fraser, south._

_South fucking what, Mike?_

She scanned the pages in front of her. _Southport? South 15_ _th_ _St? South-goddamn-side Chicago?_

Nothing.

_Well, what do you expect, Wheeler? Man's shot to pieces and full of drugs and you think he's about to solve the case for you?_

Wheeler gathered the papers together and started putting them back in order. _Transcripts, statements, notes …_ Squaring them off, she hooked the file box from the floor and hoisted the papers to put them away. The stack was too big for her to manage one-handed, though, and the pages slipped and fanned open. Wheeler swore, put them down again and started shuffling them together again, thumbing through them to make them sit flat.

About to drop them in the box, she stopped.

_What was that?_

She leafed through the pages again, looking for the one that had caught her eye.

_I saw … something …_

Transcripts, statements, depositions, evidence lists, notes …

Right at the bottom, a carbon copy, thin as onion-paper, probably hard to read even when it was new. Wheeler didn't need to read, it though – she only needed to see one word in faded cursive, written firmly under the heading 'Complaint drafted by:'

_ADA Southerlyn._

_Not 'Southport' or 'south 15_ _th_ _' or 'south side Chicago.'_

_**Southerlyn.** _

Wheeler dropped the files into the box and pulled out her cell. She called up Serena's number and a smiling snap of the blonde lawyer greeted her. Serena looked a little tipsy in the photo – well, she had been. They both had been, towards the end of the Christmas party, exchanging numbers and taking pictures of each other with their phones.

Wheeler looked at the photo for a second.

_I'm wrong. It's not what Mike meant. Or_ _**he's** _ _wrong. He's full of drugs._

_Someone's wrong._

Memory kicked up Mike Logan's growl. _"Learn to trust your instincts, Wheeler_. _Police work's more than the regs."_

She selected 'cell' and hit 'call'.

Ringing, ringing, and then Serena's smooth, professional voice. "You've reached Serena Southerlyn's message bank. Please speak after the tone."

_She's in a meeting. At the movies. Her phone is on silent._

"Hi, Serena," Wheeler said. "It's Megan Wheeler. I need to speak to you urgently. It's work related." As the words left her mouth she thought that sounded like that was the only reason she might think to call. "Ah, not that I wouldn't call otherwise – I mean, I was meaning to call – but this is a case. Please call me as soon as you get this message."

She hung up, chose 'home', left a slightly better-thought-out message on Serena's home machine, then did the same at her office. Then she looked at her phone for a minute, waiting for it to ring.

It didn't.

_Well, the message you left made you sound like a retard_ , she thought. _I wouldn't return my call either._

She bit her lip. _She's probably out to dinner._

_It's nothing._

She got half-way through dialing the local precinct to ask for a drive-by and then cancelled the call. _I can just imagine what happens after they knock on her door and say 'Excuse me, ma'am, Detective Wheeler wants to know why you aren't answering your phone.'_

_I'd live that down in a hurry._

_Not._

She restored Carver's office exactly how it had been, checked her phone again in case she'd accidentally set it to silent. No. No missed calls.

Biting her lip, she tried all three numbers again. All three rang through to message.

_Only fifteen minutes since I called. She's having a haircut, at a concert, meeting a client …_

She knew what Logan would say. " _Trust your instincts, Wheeler. I know you got 'em."_

_Dammit!_

She locked Carver's office and headed for her car. By the time she got there she was almost running. Working her way through the evening traffic she kept trying to reach Serena. _Pick up, pick up, dammit, pick up!_

She pulled up down the street from Serena's house in a semi-legal parking place and stuck her NYPD parking authorization on the dash. Even before she got out of the car she could see the lights blazing from Serena's windows.

_So much for not home._

_She doesn't want to talk to you, that's all, Wheeler, take a hint._

Wheeler rang Serena's home number and heard the distant ring of a telephone. Then the machine picked up and she hung up without saying anything.

_Great. Now I am a_ _ **fully-fledged**_ _stalker_.

_Lights on but nobody home._ Wheeler didn't like it. She didn't like it at all. _She's gone to get takeaway and doesn't want to come home to a dark house. You do it all the time._

But it was _wrong_. There was something _wrong_ and she couldn't walk away.

Wheeler went up to the door and rang the bell, rang again, finger pressed on the buzzer, stopped and listened for the sound of someone coming to the door. _Nothing_. On the off-chance the bell was broken, she knocked good and hard, _rat-a-tat-tat-police-business-ma'am._

_Nothing._

_She's probably in the shower. Or just doesn't want to be disturbed. Or she has company._

_The only thing 'wrong' is that you thought she liked you and she's changed her mind. That's all. Don't invent explanations._

Wheeler walked away.

" _You gotta trust your instincts, Wheeler. You got them. They've just atrophied. You gotta trust your instincts if you're ever gonna be the cop I know you can be."_

She stopped. Her instincts … her instincts were telling her that she needed to see Serena, needed to see that she was all right.

_Which instincts, though, huh, Megan? Cop instincts? Or the other kind?_

_Fuck it_.

She turned back. Quiet, cat-footed, she sidled back up the steps of Serena's townhouse. She didn't knock on the door, but leaned to peer in the windows, one side, then the other.

_Empty rooms._

Her heart picked up a sharper pace.

_Come on, Megan, the rooms are empty, why are you getting nervy?_

_Because … because …_

Because through the dining room window, she could see the door to the hall. And through that door, she could see an umbrella, a coat, a pile of mail, scattered across the floor.

And nothing else in her field of vision was out of place.

Wheeler found she had her gun in her hand.

_Call for backup._

That's what her instincts were telling her. _Call for backup._

And what – discover that Serena Southerlyn had come home and dumped her stuff in a hurry to answer the phone, and just not picked it up yet?

_Call for back up._

_And spend fifteen years living down the story of how Megan Wheeler got ten police officers to break up the hot lawyer's date?_

It was too soon to call for backup, Wheeler decided. She edged back down the steps and scouted the side of the building. She remembered Serena showing her a courtyard out the back, beyond the kitchen. _There must be some kind of access …_ The townhouse met the others on either side without a gap, though.

Wheeler jogged down the street, counting the houses she passed, until she reached the alleyway she knew would have to be there. She hurried along it, and found herself looking at the back of the last building in the row, and at the fence around its tiny yard.

She holstered her gun, and jumped. She managed to catch the edge of the fence and hauled herself up.

_This is really stupid, Megan._

_Trust your instincts, Wheeler._

Her instincts were telling her she was in an excellent position to either a) fall on her ass or b) get shot by a nervous householder. She pulled herself up to her feet and, balancing carefully, began to walk along the fence, counting the houses as she passed. _Please, don't let there be dogs. Please, no dogs._

There were no dogs. She reached Serena's yard and quietly lowered herself down. The lights were on in the kitchen as well, spilling out over the courtyard. Wheeler made her way over to the back door, keeping as much to the shadows as she could.

The door was closed.

The door was closed, but the window beside it was broken.

* * *

.oOo.


	30. Trust Your Instincts

Wheeler looked at the broken window.

Adrenaline pulsed through her. She pulled her radio out of her pocket and turned the volume down to nearly nothing before she hit the call button.

"Go ahead," the dispatcher said.

"This is Detective Megan Wheeler of Major Case," Wheeler said as calmly and quietly as she could. "I need backup right now." She gave Serena's address, and remembered to say, "Be advised, plainclothes officer on the scene."

Barely waiting for the confirmation, she turned the radio off and dropped it back in her pocket. Gun in one hand, she tried the door handle. It turned easily.

She eased the door open and then went through, fast and low. The kitchen was empty. Wheeler edged to the doorway to the rest of the house and listened, trying to bring the layout of the house to mind. _Dining_ _room living room this side,_ she thought, _then hall, then study and sitting room the other. Bedrooms, bathroom upstairs._

The dining room was empty, too. Wheeler stopped at the door to the hallway and listened.

"Say it," a man's voice said. "Say it!"

_Upstairs._

_Clear this floor first. There might be more than one of them._

"Say it! Say, 'I'm a bitch'. Say it!"

"I'm a bitch," Serena said calmly.

Wheeler wanted to run up the stairs, but instead she went quick and silent through the other rooms downstairs, gun low, ears pitched to the voices upstairs. The study was a mess, papers and books tossed all over the floor, but it was empty. All the rooms downstairs were empty.

"Say 'I'm a _lying_ bitch.'"

"I'm a lying bitch," Serena said as placidly as if she were ordering lunch.

Wheeler went up the stairs slow and careful, gun leading, and stopped at the top, listening.

"Say it again!"

_Front bedroom_ , Wheeler thought. She took a quick look in the other rooms and then crept to the bedroom door. The door was slightly ajar. She crouched low and nudged it further open.

Serena was on the other side of the room, bound hand and foot to a chair by the dressing table, red marks on her face where she'd have a bad bruise tomorrow. A tall, heavily built man with blonde hair stood in front of her. He had Serena by the hair with one hand. In his other hand he held a knife.

"I'm a lying bitch," Serena said.

"Say it like you mean it!" the perp demanded.

_Take the shot,_ Wheeler thought. _No. A through-and-through will hit Serena. Move forward._

"But I _don't_ mean it," Serena said reasonably as Wheeler pushed the door slightly wider and eased through.

"I'll fucking make you mean it!" The knife came up, came closer to Serena's face. Wheeler cursed silently. _No clear shot. Make him drop the knife. 'Hands up! Police! Drop the knife!'_ She rehearsed it silently as she inched forward. _Get to a better position, then stand, aim, and 'Hands up!'_

"Do you really think that's going to prove anything?" Serena said. Wheeler couldn't believe how calm she sounded. _Here she is, tied up, at the mercy of some psycho with a knife, and she's telling him off!_

"It'll prove something to me!" the perp snarled. The knife flashed in the light as he raised it.

_Hands up!_

_Trust your instincts._

Wheeler stood up, took one long stride forward to clear her line of fire, and shot him.

It was a good shot, close range, well-placed – right at the point in the shoulder where they had told them in the Academy the nerves were bunched. The knife dropped from the perp's hand. He grabbed his shoulder and turned to stare at Wheeler. "What – "

"On the floor," Wheeler ordered. "On the floor! _On the fucking floor!_ "

Eyes wild, he took a step forward.

Wheeler shot him again, in the knee this time, and he went down hard, yelping in pain and anger as he hit the ground.

"Stay there," she ordered him, gun still up and ready, and backed towards Serena. "Serena, are you okay?'

"I'm fine," Serena said.

"You know this bitch?" the perp snarled from the floor.

Wheeler looked at him for a long, thoughtful moment. Then she took careful aim and shot him again.

* * *

.oOo.


	31. Back Up

_Serena Southerlyn's Townhouse_

_11 pm Tuesday 2 January 2007_

* * *

"You _shot_ me! You fucking bitch, you _shot_ me!"

"Shut up or I'll shoot you some more," Wheeler said. Keeping her gaze and her gun on the man on the floor, she felt backwards until her fingers touched Serena's arm. She found the ropes binding Serena's wrist to the chair and began to work them loose.

"I need a doctor! I need an ambulance! You _shot_ me!"

"The bus is on its way," Wheeler said. "Along with my backup. So _shut up_."

She freed Serena's wrist.

"I got it," Serena said. Wheeler glanced away from the perp long enough to see Serena using her free hand to pull the ropes off her other hand.

A moment later and the lawyer had completely freed herself. "I'm going to open the front door," Serena said. Wheeler was amazed at her composure. Her own heart was racing.

"You fucking _shot_ me!" the perp said.

Wheeler heard noises downstairs, running footsteps on the stairs.

"I'm a cop, I'm a cop!" Wheeler said, hands in the air, as the uniforms burst into the room. "My badge is in my pocket. I'm putting down my gun. Okay? On the ground, okay?"

"That's her," a voice said, and Wheeler looked past the uniformed officers to see Captain Ross. The tension in the room eased down a notch. Wheeler was relieved to see all the guns pointed towards the perp on the floor. She took a shaky breath, still quivering with adrenaline.

"Wheeler, you all right?" Ross asked.

Wheeler nodded, but couldn't find words, so she nodded again and held her gun out butt first to her captain. She felt a little bit too _alive_ for the rest of them, like she and the perp on the floor were the only real people in the room and everybody else were pale cardboard cutouts of people.

"You should have waited for back-up," Ross told her sternly. Wheeler tried to look contrite but she didn't think she managed it. She didn't feel contrite. A wild exhilaration possessed her, and she didn't want to stand there and make appropriate noises while Ross lectured her. She wanted to run down the street at full speed, maybe pick a fight with some skell, to talk too much and laugh too loud in some bar where people would look at her funny for it and she'd ignore them.

"I'd be dead if she'd done that, Captain Ross," Serena said from the doorway. _She_ was a clear and vivid presence in the room, real and solid, unlike Ross and the EMTs and the uniformed cops. She walked to Wheeler and Ross, skirting the paramedics working on the perp. "He had me tied to that chair and he was about to stab me when Detective Wheeler fired."

"Is that how it happened?" Ross asked Wheeler. Wheeler nodded again, and Ross clapped her on the shoulder. "Okay. I'll get this guy mirandized before they transport him. Ms Southerlyn, you need to go to hospital as well."

"I'll be fine," Serena said.

"I'm sure," Ross said, "but the DA will want pictures and a medical report."

"Of course," Serena said. "I should have remembered that. I'll get my coat."

Ross watched her go, and then turned to Wheeler. "He was about to stab her? She seems pretty calm about it."

"She's a cool customer," Wheeler said, finding her voice. "I could hear them upstairs, but I had to clear downstairs first. I – " The room was suddenly too small for her, like she would knock the furniture flying with an incautious move. "I need some air," she blurted, and pushed past Ross.

On the steps outside the house she hung on to the railing and took deep breaths of the cold night air. She felt like she had to move carefully, because like an astronaut on a spacewalk, a moment's inattention could send her shooting off into orbit. She looked at the streetlight above her, feeling as if she could bend her knees and jump up and touch it.

A noise behind her made her turn and she pressed back against the railing to let the EMTs go past with their stretcher, a uniformed officer bringing up the rear.

"That's her!" the perp said from the stretcher. "She _shot_ me!"

"Good for her," the uniform said dryly.

"On _purpose!_ "

"We frown on shooting people by accident," the uniform said. "But someone could make an exception if you don't _shut up._ " He caught Wheeler's eye and winked.

Wheeler watched while the paramedics loaded the stretcher into the ambulance and then one of them jogged back. "Here's his wallet, Detective," he said.

"Thanks." Wheeler took the wallet and flipped it open to read the name on the driver's license.

_Peter Fraser_.

"That the guy's ID?" Ross asked, making her start.

"Peter Fraser," Wheeler said, handing it over. "Goren's working a case with a Peter Fraser in it."

"I'll call him," Ross said. "Come on."

Wheeler found herself in the back seat of a squad car. She turned away from Ross as the car pulled out and started following an ambulance and listened to Ross talking on his cell phone.

"Peter Fraser," he said. "Tall and blonde. Yeah, I thought you'd want to know. No, she's fine – Wheeler put a couple of bullets in him just in time. Okay, see you there." He closed the phone. "Goren and Eames have been looking at Fraser for Logan's shooting. He's Leonie Fraser's son."

Wheeler started to speak, coughed to clear her throat, and said: "Serena Southerlyn was the ADA who caught the complaint on Leonie Fraser out of the pool."

"And _Carver_ put her away," Ross said. "I like him for this." He paused. "He was about to stab her when you shot him?"

"Yeah."

"And the second time?"

"He came forward," Wheeler said.

"He came at you."

"That's right." Wheeler looked out the window at the night time city going past. "Where's Ms Southerlyn?"

"In a squad behind us," Ross said. "Why did you go around there tonight? Was it – was it personal?"

"Are you asking if she's my girlfriend?" Wheeler said. "I saw her name in the Fraser file. When I couldn't reach her on the phone, I thought I should check it out."

"That's a pretty big leap of logic," Ross said.

Wheeler shrugged. "Paid off," she said.

When they reached the hospital Fraser was wheeled off to surgery and Serena was escorted away to be examined and photographed. Wheeler found herself giving her statement to a uniformed officer in a corner of the waiting room. As she finished she looked up to see a young man she vaguely recognized from the DA's Office talking to Serena by the door.

"I called Mr. McCoy," the young man said.

"You _what_ – " Serena said. "Oh, god, Fitzgerald, I'd better call him."

"I told him you were alright," Fitzgerald said.

"Yeah, that will _definitely_ stop him coming down here," Serena said, pulling out her cell. About to dial, she looked at the screen and frowned.

Wheeler realized she would be looking at all the missed calls Wheeler herself had made to Serena earlier in the night. Then as Serena hit a button and raised the phone to her ear, Wheeler realized she was picking up her messages.

She cringed. Suddenly she didn't feel ten feet tall and invincible anymore. The embarrassment of Serena listening to the stammering messages she'd left was the most important thing in the world, far surpassing the fact that she'd shot the man who was currently the lead suspect in the shooting of her partner. Anxiously, she watched Serena's face as she listened, waiting for an expression of disdain to cross those pale and perfect features.

Instead, Serena smiled.

_She smiled._ Wheeler waited while Serena made a call and reassured 'Jack' that she was perfectly all right. _She smiled._ Wheeler was ten feet, she was _one hundred_ feet tall. She could have plucked the sun and the moon out of the sky with one hand.

When Serena dropped the phone back in her pocket Wheeler made her way over to her.

"Did they give you a clean bill of health?" she asked shyly.

Serena smiled again, more broadly. "Megan. Yes, they did. I'm just going to swear out my complaint with Bill. Then I guess I'll head home."

"I'll make sure the uniforms take you home," Wheeler assured her.

"I appreciate it," Serena said.

"No problem," Wheeler said. A movement at the entrance caught her eye and she saw Goren and Eames coming in. "I have to go talk to my colleagues."

"Maybe you'll still be here when I'm done," Serena said.

Wheeler felt herself blush. "Maybe I will," she said.

"So where is this mook?" Eames asked as soon as Wheeler was close enough.

"Surgery," Wheeler said.

"I hear you _shot_ him," Goren said.

"That's right," Wheeler said.

"How did that feel?" Goren asked.

Wheeler stared him down. "I didn't know he was the guy who shot my partner, so it was mainly satisfying in _retrospect_ ," she said.

Goren grinned. "Good answer," he said. "But cut out the smartass when his defense lawyer has you on the stand. So 'Fraser – South', huh? Southerlyn."

"Turns out," Wheeler said.

"You want to come sit outside the operating room door?" Goren said. "Just to make sure he doesn't get away?"

"He's handcuffed to the gurney," Eames said. "He's not getting away. You just can't wait to interrogate him."

"Yeah, but he's unconscious," Goren said. "But, hey, Wheeler, _you_ aren't."

She gave them the details, clear and concise, Goren nodding in appreciation. That was a part of police work she'd always been good at, something that didn't involve trying to soothe hysterical witnesses or empathize with victims. "He was charged with breaking and entering, unlawful imprisonment, assault, attempted," she finished. "You were already looking at him for Mike?"

"Logan out of the picture, Carver can't make the conviction on Leonie Fraser stick," Eames said. "We think he's a recreational hunter, or knows one."

"Couldn't confirm the alibi," Goren said.

"Now I'm thinking the girlfriend was lying," Eames said.

"We can go talk to her," Goren said. "Let her know about Fraser. I think she'd like to know."

Wheeler shrugged. "Up to you," she said. "I'd let her stew. But I'm not allowed to work _that_ case. I'm going to go see how Mike's doing."

When she pushed open the door of Logan's room, he was asleep. Wheeler pulled a chair up and sat next to him for a while, watching his chest rise and fall.

She looked up as the door opened and Ross came in.

"How's he doing?" Ross asked.

"Seems okay," Wheeler said.

"How are _you_ doing?"

She shrugged. "I seem okay, too."

"So tell me again about how you shot Fraser?" Ross asked.

"He was going to stab Ms Southerlyn, I shot him. He came at me and I shot him again."

"And that was it?" Ross asked.

"Not quite," Wheeler admitted.

"No," Ross said. "You shot him _three times_. What the fuck was that, Wheeler?"

Wheeler shrugged. "I was trusting my instincts," she said.

A wheezing noise made them both turn in concern.

Mike Logan was laughing.

* * *

.oOo.


	32. Tea And Sympathy

_Mercy Hospital_

_2 am Wednesday January 3_ _rd_ _, 2007_

* * *

"Yeah, Lennie, I'm doing okay," Wheeler said into the phone. She hunched her shoulders a little against the chill in the ambulance bay. "No. Not a scratch. Not Serena, either. I'll call you tomorrow."

She listened to Briscoe tell her, scratchy over the cell-phone connection, to take it easy, to call him or a friend if she couldn't sleep.

"Hey, Megan," a voice said behind her.

"I gotta go, Lennie," Wheeler said. "Thanks." She turned to see Serena Southerlyn standing just outside the ER doors.

"The officers will take you home," Wheeler told her, gesturing to the two uniformed cops waiting just inside the hospital entrance.

"Would you ride with me?" Serena asked. "If you don't have to – I mean, with the case."

"No, it's fine," Wheeler said. "My car is outside your house, anyway. But do you want – I can get someone else for you, if you'd like."

"Why would I want someone else?" Serena asked.

"It's not my strong suit, dealing with victims," Wheeler said. "I can find you someone – "

"No," Serena said, and put her hand on Wheeler's. "No. I'm not a victim. Thanks to you."

"Okay," Wheeler said, returning Serena's smile. She gestured to the uniforms. "Let's go."

Neither of them said much as the car moved through the city, but there was no awkwardness to the silence. Serena watched the city passing outside the car window. Wheeler watched Serena. When the patrol car pulled up outside Serena's house, she was sorry the ride was over.

"Thank you," Serena said. "For making sure I got home. And – everything."

"No problem," Wheeler said.

Serena put her hand on the door-handle and then hesitated. "Would you – would you come in? I mean – I know he's not there. But would you – "

"Sure," Wheeler said. She got out of the car and leaned down to tell the driver to go on, she had her own wheels. "Hang on a minute," she said to Serena, and jogged to her own car. In the trunk, inside the hole where a spare tire was supposed to go, she had her spare piece, and she took it out. She tucked it in the back of her jeans as she walked back to the house, feeling tough, feeling like a street cop.

There were still two uniformed officers outside the door.

"We boarded up the back door," one told Wheeler. "Forensics is done."

"Thanks," Wheeler said. She led the way to the front door. Serena watched as she opened it and stepped inside. In the hallway, conscious of Serena's eyes on her, Wheeler tugged her gun from her belt and worked the slide. "Wait there," she said.

"There's no-one in there, detective," the uniform said.

"Better safe than sorry," Wheeler said before Serena answered. She imagined she saw gratitude in the glance Serena gave her.

Wheeler went through every room, more slowly and more carefully than she had when she'd been desperate to get upstairs to where Serena was being held. As she'd expected, the house was empty. Wheeler looked in the cupboards, and under the bed, and under the spare bed too, but there was no Peter Fraser, and no bogeyman either.

She was tucking her gun back in her belt as she came down the stairs and when she caught Serena's gaze she saw something in Serena's face that made her feel for just a minute like she might be Mike Logan rather than Mike Logan's inexperienced junior partner.

She jogged down the last few stairs with a slight swagger. "There's no-one here," she said.

"Thank you," Serena said.

"Do you have anyone to stay with you?" Wheeler asked. "Someone to call?"

Serena shook her head. "No, I – I'm on my own. Since Jenny – my girlfriend, Jennifer Walker, she – "

"I read about it," Wheeler said quickly to spare Serena saying the words. "I'm sorry."

"It was a tough time," Serena said. She looked around the hallway, but didn't take another step into the house. "You looked – "

"Everywhere," Wheeler said. "There's no-one here." She put her hands in her pockets, _tough street cop_ stance. "You're safe, Serena."

"Okay," Serena said. She made a brave effort at a smile but her gaze darted nervously around the entryway.

"Would you like me to stay?" Wheeler offered.

"Yes," Serena said quickly. "I would feel better, with someone here." At last she came a little further into the house. "I'll put some clean sheets on the bed in the guest room."

"That's not necessary," Wheeler said, and then felt herself blush scarlet. "I mean – I mean, it's not much use having an armed guard who's asleep. I'll sit up."

Serena shook her head. "No, I don't – it isn't that I think somebody's going to break in again, that you'll need to shoot someone. I just would like to know someone else is here."

"I know," Wheeler said. She touched the butt of her gun at the small of her back, and saw Serena catch the movement. "But I'll sit up, all the same.

"Let's have a nightcap and talk about it," Serena said.

"Not for me," Wheeler said. "Liquor and handguns are a bad combination."

"Tea, then," Serena said, and led the way to the kitchen.

Wheeler perched on a stool by the kitchen island while Serena filled the kettle and set it to boil.

"I have, let's see," Serena said, opening the cupboard above the stove. "I have chamomile, lemongrass, green, elderberry – "

"I don't mind," Wheeler said, and then: "Not elderberry."

Serena laughed. "Okay." She measured leaves into the teapot and then lifted the jug. She poured the water and then gasped. "Dammit!"

Wheeler realized she had spilt the boiling water. "Let me see," she said, sliding off the stool and going to Serena's side.

"It's nothing," Serena said. She turned on the cold tap and held her hand under it. "Just a scald."

Wheeler used the dishcloth to mop up the spill and then turned to Serena. "Show me your hand."

"It's fine," Serena said. "I'm fine."

"Let me see," Wheeler insisted firmly.

Serena took her hand out of the stream of water and held it out to Wheeler. "See? Just a little red."

Wheeler looked and saw that Serena was telling the truth – the scald was minor. She also saw the tremor in Serena's fingers that had made her spill the water in the first place and realized then that Serena's composure was mostly façade. Protectiveness rose in her chest, a warm sweet ache that put a lump in her throat. "You're shaking," she said. She took Serena's hands in both hers.

"I'll be okay," Serena said with a watery smile. "I'm just not very heroic."

"You were amazing," Wheeler said honestly. "I could never have kept my cool the way you did." It was true, but at the same time Wheeler was acutely aware that the poised and self-assured Serena was looking to _her_ , Megan Wheeler, for protection.

"I was terrified," Serena confessed. "I guess sometimes it's an advantage, not being very good at showing how you feel."

"You didn't seem terrified," Wheeler said. "Not to me."

"I thought he was going to kill me," Serena said. Her eyes filled with tears and she looked down. "No. I _knew_ he was going to kill me. And suddenly you were there and I knew I was saved." She took a breath that hitched on a sob. "I knew I was saved."

Wheeler put her arm around Serena's shoulders and drew the other woman closer to her. "And you're safe now. You're safe." Serena's body was as strong and soft as Wheeler had imagined as the lawyer leaned against her.

Serena sighed. She freed her hand from Wheeler's and brushed her fingers across Wheeler's cheek.

"I'm glad it was you," Serena said. "I'm glad you're here."

Wheeler drew Serena closer, wrapping the trembling lawyer in her arms. "I'm glad I'm here too," she said.

Serena turned in the circle of Wheeler's arms until they were face to face. "Megan," she said. It wasn't a question.

Wheeler smiled, raising her hand to trace the line of Serena's jaw. "Yes," she said. It wasn't an answer. She ran her fingers through Serena's hair to cup her head and leaned forward.

Serena met her half-way.

* * *

.oOo.


	33. Charity

_Mercy Hospital_

_10 am Wednesday January 3_ _rd_ _, 2007_

* * *

"Heeeey, Peter," Goren said. He grabbed a chair and banged it down beside Peter Fraser's bed. "Looks like you haven't been entirely _honest_ with us."

Eames leaned against the wall by the door, hands in her pockets, jacket open to show her gun and badge. "That's a charitable way of putting it, Bobby," she said.

"I'm in a charitable mood, Alex," Goren said. He gave Fraser a big beaming smile. "I mean, why not? Mr. Fraser here is going away for a _long_ time, no matter what. He tried to kill a former ADA right in front of a NYPD detective. That's what the DA likes to call a _slam-dunk_."

"Fuck off," Fraser said.

"Now, Peter, no need for that," Goren said reproachfully. "You and me, we're going to have a little _talk_. But before we do, I need to tell you something. You, Peter, have the right to remain _silent_. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning. If you can't afford an attorney, one will be provided to you. Do you understand these rights?"

Fraser was silent.

"Speak _up_!" Eames snapped.

"Yeah. I understand," Fraser said.

"Good," Goren said. "Now, Peter, we have you cold on trying to kill Serena Southerlyn. We're making the case on Mike Logan and Charles Johnson – "

"Who?" Fraser asked.

"The nice man you _shot_ when you took aim at Carver and _missed_ ," Eames said. "Yesterday morning on the courthouse steps."

"Wasn't me," Fraser said. He grinned. "I was visiting my mother. Signed in and out."

Eames was pretty sure she didn't betray her surprise, and she knew Goren didn't, but her mind clicked over into higher gear. _Not him on the steps with the handgun – didn't deny shooting Mike –_

"So you gave your girlfriend her marching orders," Goren said as Eames reached the same conclusion. Fraser's eyes widened, just a little.

"I want a lawyer," he said.

"So do I," Eames said, reaching for her cell-phone as she turned to leave the room. In the hall, she hit a speed-dial key. "Yeah, this is Detective Eames from Major Case. I need an arrest warrant for Emma Linton."

* * *

.oOo.


	34. Suppression Of Evidence

_Office of Emil Skoda_

_Thursday January 4_ _th_ _, 2007_

* * *

Regan paused at Skoda's office door, and then cleared her throat.

"Doctor?" she said.

Skoda looked up from his papers and smiled. "Regan. Come in. Close the door. Or not, if you'd like, but most people – "

Regan closed the door behind her and sat down on the other side of his desk. "I had this appointment because Mr. McCoy can't find your report," she said.

"So you told me," Skoda said.

"Can we talk about something else first?"

"Sure," Skoda said.

She took a shallow breath, tried to speak and found the words stuck in her throat. Skoda waited silently. Regan took another breath, closed her eyes, and blurted: "I need some help."

"Okay," Skoda said. His voice was so calm and neutral that Regan was able to open her eyes and look at him. "Can you tell me why?"

"Chuck got shot," Regan said. "And Ron Carver. And I'm not – I can't – I don't think I know how to do this."

"Do what?" Skoda asked. "Talk to me about it?"

Regan shook her head. "That, too," she said, trying to smile. "No. _Any_ of it. This time. It's all – I couldn't get changed. After. There was blood, Chuck's blood, and I couldn't stand it, and I – a couple of cops cut me out of my own clothes." She shrugged. "It was just blood. But – "

_Blood, hot and slick on her skin, coppery in her mouth, blood on the floor and some of it's hers and most of it isn't and he's screaming and screaming and her name is in there in his screams and there's nothing she can do except hold up the gun, the heavy heavy gun, and wish with all her heart that -_

"Your friend's blood," Skoda said.

"Yeah," Regan said. "I'm not sleeping too well. And with everything at work …" She swallowed, thinking of _everything_ , of McCoy's furious contempt, Branch's warnings … "I need something to help me sleep," she said. "Can you help me with that?"

"Nightmares?" Skoda asked.

_and he's screaming and screaming and screaming and the gun is so heavy and she can't breathe and the gun is so heavy and there's so much blood on the floor and he's screaming and screaming -_

"No," Regan said. "Not – mainly, I can't sleep. I lie there and look at the clock."

_The glowing numbers click over to 3.34 and that makes only six more minutes to 3.40. That was the target Regan set for herself at 3.30, just get through to 3.40. It's only ten minutes, You can stand anything for ten minutes._

_She doesn't think about the fact that at 3.29 she was rejoicing in the fact that she had only one more minute to go, or that at 3.40 she'll tell herself, ten minutes, just until 3.50, you can stand anything for ten minutes._

_If she had a gun, ten minutes would be too long. At 3.40, she's allowed to get up and get dressed and go looking for a punk with a hot gun to sell her. If she had a private bathroom, ten minutes would be too long. At 3.40, she's allowed to get up and get dressed and put a knife in her bag and go check into a hotel with a private bathroom and deep bath. If she didn't have bars on her window, ten minutes would be too long. At 3.40 she's allowed to get up and get dressed and go up to the roof._

_But not until 3.40. Five more minutes. Four, now._

_She's so cold her teeth are chattering. It's possible she really_ _**is** _ _cold. The radiator has been on the fritz since before New Year's._

_It's possible she isn't cold at all._

_Three minutes. Two. 3.39._

_The numbers click over._

_Ten minutes, Regan tells herself. You can stand anything for ten minutes. Just until 3.50. Stay still until 3.50. It's just ten minutes. You can make ten minutes._

_Ten minutes._

"What do you think about, when you can't sleep?" Skoda asked.

"It's not like thinking," Regan said. "It's more like static. And I can't get it to stop."

"Have you thought about ways of making the static stop?"

"Yes," Regan said.

"Do any of those ways involve hurting yourself?" Skoda asked calmly.

"Yes," she whispered.

"Are you afraid you might act on those thoughts?" Skoda asked.

"No," Regan said, cleared her throat and said again, more firmly: "No."

"Because?"

"Because I came close once and it seems like a waste of all that effort to throw in the towel now," Regan said.

"You came close to hurting yourself?" Skoda asked.

"No," Regan said. "I came close to dying."

"When you got shot."

"Yes," Regan said.

"Not, I'm guessing, in the elbow."

"I got shot in the elbow," Regan said. "That wasn't the only time I got shot."

Skoda let the silence stretch, but Regan didn't break it. "And the other time, you came close to dying," he prompted at last.

"I don't want to talk about it," Regan said.

"I know," Skoda said dryly, and surprised Regan into a gasp of laughter. "You know you're going to have to, though, right?"

Regan nodded. "Not today, though," she said, hating the pleading note in her voice.

"Not today," Skoda said, letting her off. He reached into his desk drawer and took out a prescription pad. "Did it occur to you when you came here that the things you've told me might make you a candidate for an involuntary 72 hour hold?" he asked her as he wrote.

"Yes," Regan said.

"And you came anyway," Skoda said, tearing the script off the pad and holding it out to her. "You know that's good, right?"

Regan shrugged, but she felt a little warmed by his words. "I wouldn't – I would never _do_ anything," she tried to explain. "Just – "

"The thought of suicide is a great source of comfort: with it a calm passage is to be made across many a bad night," Skoda said. "Friedrich Nietzsche wrote that."

"Wasn't he a lunatic?" Regan asked.

Skoda smiled. "Later. But not a suicide." He studied Regan. "Sometimes knowing we don't _have_ to endure is the only thing that makes endurance possible." When Regan met his gaze, startled to hear her own thoughts spoken aloud, Skoda gave her a small, kind, smile. "Where you are, Regan, you're not the first. And you're not alone. If that helps."

"A little," Regan said. She looked at the script. "Only one refill?"

"Only one _pill_ ," Skoda said. "I'll see you tomorrow." He took a card from his tray and gave it to her. "That's my cell number. Use it if you need to."

"Okay," Regan said.

"Do you know any relaxation exercises?" Skoda asked.

"What, chanting and that crap?" Regan asked in surprise.

Skoda smiled. "The chanting is optional," he told her. "Close your eyes. Think about somewhere where you felt safe and calm. Imagine yourself there. Fill in the details – the sound, the smell. Concentrate."

_Concentrate_. Regan shoved the pill bottle holding the single pill Skoda had prescribed deeper in her pocket and hunched her shoulders against the wind. _Easier said than done._

She darted across the street against the light and hurried into the shelter of One Hogan Place. Hitting the elevator button for the tenth floor she tried not to look at the button that would have taken her to Major Case. Major Case, where Chuck would not be there to pass judgment on her outfit. Major Case, where Carver would not be there to dazzle them all with some cool display of legal logic.

_I didn't even know he'd been shot. I ran for my life and left him on the steps._

Regan shook her head sharply. _Somewhere calm and safe_. Unbidden, the image of a white line on rain-slick blacktop rose to her mind, rolling towards her and disappearing under the car. _No other cars._ She could hear the tires hissing on the road. _No one with me. Nowhere to go. Just me and the car and the road._

She was surprised to find her heart-rate slowing and the acid in her stomach subsiding. _Well, I'll be – the trick-cyclist knows his trade after all._

When she reached her desk she saw a stack of file boxes in the corner of her office. Each was marked, in her own handwriting, _Whitford_.

"The case is back with me," McCoy said behind her. Regan turned slowly, taking the time to compose herself. "With Carver out."

Regan nodded. "You need me to brief your second chair?"

"I'll let you know," McCoy said. "I have to argue the question of inevitable discovery in front of Judge Rebecca Steinman tomorrow morning. You prepared with Carver for Sally Bell's motion, didn't you?"

"Yes," Regan said.

McCoy tossed a folder on her desk. "Check this against his prep, will you? We can't afford to lose the financials."

Regan nodded. "Right away," she said.

McCoy turned away, then turned back. He opened his mouth, hesitated, then said: "You okay?"

"Please don't ask me," Regan said desperately, feeling the tears come to her eyes and hiding her face by pretending to study the folder he'd given her.

"Okay," McCoy said. She thought he'd left until he spoke again, voice low and quiet. "You got help?"

"Got Skoda on speed-dial," Regan said with false brightness, not looking up.

"Okay," McCoy said again, and this time she heard him move away down the hall.

As soon as he was gone she shut her office door and sank into her office chair. _The white line. The black road. The sound of the tires_.

She pulled herself together and turned back to the beginning of the folder. McCoy was right. _We can't afford to lose the financials._ She didn't know why he was giving her another chance.

She wasn't about to blow it.

* * *

.oOo.


	35. Inevitable Discovery

_Office of Executive Assistant District Attorney Jack McCoy_

_10_ _th_ _Floor_

_One Hogan Place_

_8 pm Friday January 5_ _th_ _2007_

* * *

McCoy looked up from his files to see Briscoe and Green at his doorway.

"Detectives," he said. "Come in. What can I do for you?"

"I hear you fought the good fight this morning," Briscoe said.

"And was triumphant," McCoy said smugly. "Whitford's financials are _in._ " He reached for his bottom drawer and then, out of consideration for Briscoe, stopped. "Sally was ropeable." He grinned at the memory – Regan's argument for inevitable discovery had had a whiff of bootstrapping about it but it held up well enough when buttressed with _Nix v Williams_ and a bit of McCoy's best tap-dancing.

_The argument wasn't half-bad – and the subpoena wasn't actually all that dubious either,_ McCoy thought. _Sally was reaching – and I should have seen that on the face of the motion._

_I assumed the worst._

His anger at her deception had been so consuming it had colored the way he saw everything – not just the case. Arthur Branch's reaction, which Abbie had pointed out as inexplicable, the time he'd spent with Regan, the things she'd said and done – all viewed through the lens of a bone-deep sense of betrayal. _I believed her, I trusted her, she lied to me –_ his train of thought had stopped there every time, until the moment he'd seen her coat and phone on the courthouse steps and his anger had vanished.

Since then, his thoughts had turned again and again to the same question – _I believed her, I trusted her, she lied to me – why?_ His first, unthinking answer no longer seemed adequate. Every time he opened his mouth to ask her, though, he hesitated. She had come back to work after the courthouse shooting pale and drawn, everything about her speaking of the tremendous effort it took her just to hold herself together. McCoy couldn't in all conscience press her now.

So he waited. And wondered.

"This is what we've got," Briscoe said, interrupting McCoy's thoughts. "Whitford's been spending the kids' trust funds all over town, but after the murder. And if he bought the paint-thinner he used as an accelerant he did it in cash."

"What _did_ he buy?" McCoy asked.

Briscoe shrugged. "Rich man toys. Charges here for fifth avenue tailors, nice restaurants, concerts. A car service. That kind of stuff."

"You've run them all down?" McCoy asked.

"I've got a date with his hooker-of-choice tomorrow night. We'll pick her up on a prostitution beef and see if she remembers any chance remarks he might have made. Wheeler's got a few more to double-check," Briscoe said. "She took a personal day yesterday, but she said she'd have a report to you first thing Monday." He cleared his throat, and went on, sounding protective: "She'll get it done, Jack. You can understand that – "

"Okay," McCoy said, and at Briscoe's look of surprise he frowned. "Jesus, Lennie, I'm not inhuman! She's more than earned a day."

"I was surprised to see Ms Markham back at her desk," Briscoe said. "She was pretty shook up the other day."

McCoy shrugged. "I can't tell her what to do," he said. "She thinks she's ready to be back, she's back." He glanced at Green. "What are you doing here, Ed, you on Whitford too?"

Green shook his head. "I'm still on Mike's case. But Goren and Eames fingered Fraser, they get first crack at him. We're dotting 'i' s . Trying to find where he got the gun, trying to get a line on his accomplice."

"He's still out there?" McCoy asked sharply.

"She," Green said. "Girlfriend. We're hoping she takes a shot at 'Carver' in the hospital."

"And if she takes a shot at Serena?" McCoy said angrily.

"Serena's wrapped up tight at home with the block bristling with undercover cops and Megan Wheeler sitting on her stairs with a .45," Green said.

McCoy relaxed a little. "Okay," he said. "I appreciate the update. On _both_ cases."

"Sure," Green said. He stood up and turned to the door, but Briscoe didn't move.

"Jack," he said.

When he didn't go on, McCoy looked at him. "Something on your mind, Lennie?"

"Something on yours?" Briscoe asked.

"A couple of high profile cases, one involving a shot cop," McCoy said tightly.

"Don't bullshit me, Jack. We've known each other too long," Briscoe said.

McCoy looked down at his papers and then sighed. He turned to Green. "Close the door," he said. Green raised his eyebrows but did as McCoy asked.

McCoy gave the detectives an abridged version of his discovery that Regan's past was fiction, her inexplicable reaction, Branch's lack of concern.

"What did _she_ say about it?" Green asked.

"She didn't say anything," McCoy said, and shrugged. "No explanation."

"Jeez, Jack, I don't know what to say," Briscoe said. "I never had any hint she was hinky – and I have pretty good instincts."

"I thought _I_ had pretty good instincts, too," McCoy said wryly. "I never had any sense that she was _lying_ to me."

Briscoe shrugged. "Maybe there's an explanation."

"Maybe she's in witness protection," McCoy said derisively.

"Did you Google her?" Green asked. "That's a webpage where you can – "

"I know what Google is," McCoy said. "No. I didn't."

"Maybe you should," Green said. He looked at his watch and stood up. "I gotta go, guys."

"Yeah, I gotta go meet some friends of Bill," Briscoe said. At the door, he paused. "Go with your gut, Jack," he advised.

_With my gut,_ McCoy thought. He'd believed – if he got right down to it, he _still believed_ – that Regan had told him the truth, in Carthage, in the car. _The evidence says differently_.

_First week of law school, Professor Barnard told us that evidence can be read in a dozen different ways._

McCoy turned to his computer and opened the web browser. He typed "Regan Markham", hit rtn.

A handful of hits, all to do with the Manhattan DA's office. It defied logic that anyone could move through the modern world without leaving a few electronic footprints. When he put in "Colleen Petraky" he got more results than he did for "Regan Markham". _No matter what her past is, there ought to be something._

He tried "Markham +Seattle". Nothing relevant. "Markham +police" got him a story on the death of a Portland cop Bill Markham at the age of 97 a few years earlier.

On impulse, he tried "Regan + Seattle." Millions of hits, nothing on the first page that seemed relevant. "Regan +police" was his next try. Nothing useful.

He went back to "Markham +police". _Veteran Portland cop Bill Markham …_

_Can't be a coincidence._

He put in "Portland +William +Markham" and …

_Bingo_.

He read _great-granddaughter of veteran Portland police officer William Markham, who died last year, Officer Elish Reagan is in a critical but stable condition._

McCoy clicked through the link and found himself staring at a picture of Regan, looking decades younger, a graduation photo from the academy, beaming with pride. _Elish Reagan graduated from Seattle Police Academy fifth in her class_ , read the caption.

McCoy searched "Elish +Reagan +police" and the screen filled up.

He scanned the page summaries. _Officer Reagan injured … awarded medal … Elish Reagan shot and killed the assailant … reaching for a second weapon when she … four officers killed … bravery … armed with a semi-automatic weapon he had converted …_ McCoy's lips thinned. He knew that story. _Officer Elish Reagan in a critical but stable condition …great-granddaughter of veteran Portland police officer William Markham, who died last year …yet to regain consciousness … in a tragic twist her husband, Robert Gunderson, was today confirmed among the dead in the Seattle PD HQ shooting … Elish Reagan off critical list … Officer Elish Reagan, heroine of the Seattle PD HQ shooting last year, has taken medical retirement … graduates from Washington University today._

He clicked through to one of the stories to see the headline proclaim "Hero Cop Kills Cop Killer!" over that picture of Regan – _of Elish_ – decades younger, little more than a child in a uniform. Another story showed her leaving her university graduation ceremony, looking a lot more like the woman he knew – battered, worn, weary and wary.

A picture of her on a gurney, EMTs in a blur of frantic movement all around her, Regan still and white, blood _everywhere_.

He checked his watch and then picked up his phone. "Can you get David Cohen from Seattle for me again, Colleen?"

A minute later the call went through.

"Mr. Cohen," McCoy said. "What can you tell me about Elish Regan?"

"Ellie?" Cohen asked immediately. "Why?"

"She's working for me," McCoy said.

"An investigator?"

"An ADA," McCoy said.

"Well, good for her," Cohen said. "I knew she was doing her degree. Had been for years."

"You worked with her?" McCoy leaned back in his chair, eyes going back to the computer screen and the image of Regan being rushed down the steps of what had to be Seattle Police Department Headquarters, the blue of her uniform turned deep indigo by blood.

"Prepped her for court a few times," Cohen said. "She asked my advice about doing a law degree – I coached her a bit, when we both had time."

"What happened?" McCoy asked. "I mean, I've read the newspaper stories, but – what happened?"

There was a silence on the end of the phone. "Few years back on nightshift a janitor who had tried and failed to pass the admittance exam five times managed to smuggle in a gun," Cohen said at last. "He shot up the house. Regan had the good luck to be in the john when he did it. They shot it out. He put four bullets in her. She put one in him. She had to walk the whole length of the squad room to get close enough to do it. I saw the blood trail." Another silence. "I heard from one of the guys who was first inside when backup finally got there, he followed that blood trail across the squad room and there she was, sitting on the floor with her gun in her hand and that son-of-a-bitch dead across from her. They all thought she was dead. She nearly was." More silence. "I heard she coded twice in the ambulance and twice more on the table. Six months in intensive care. First three of them in a coma."

"Is she a loose cannon?" McCoy asked.

"No, sir!" Cohen's surprise was evident. "She was going up the ranks. She was a good cop. Smart, by the book, good with victims, good with perps. Strong. Tough. First in the door. She'd always have your back, you know, never screwed up a case or fouled up on the stand – and she helped me move house on her day off, once, _and_ brought beer and pizza." He laughed. "She was a _dame_ , you know? Took no shit, took no prisoners, what you saw was what you got. I missed her, after the shooting. She changed. Never saw her laugh after that. Never saw that girl again. It was like someone new had come to live in her head. How's she doing, over there?"

"She's had a few bad breaks," McCoy said.

"Is that why you're calling?" Cohen asked. "Why you need to know if she's a loose cannon?"

"She lost it at a scene last month," McCoy said. "Whaled on a kid who made a joke about cop-killing."

Cohen sighed loudly enough for McCoy to hear it over the phone line. "She never did anything like that back here. I guess – I guess it's understandable. I'm surprised, though."

"Why'd she leave?"

"Wouldn't you?" Cohen asked. McCoy had no answer to that. He thanked Cohen for his time and hung up.

He couldn't look away from the picture on his screen. He located the bottle and glass in his bottom drawer by touch, set the glass on his blotter and unscrewed the cap. For a long moment he sat, staring at the computer, and then tore his gaze away to pour a much-needed drink.

_Everything she said was true. Partial, but true. Except for that one, central, crucial fact._

_Who she is._

_No. Who she_ _**was** _ _._

He flinched from the memory of his furious denunciations, and then, with a spark of anger, thought of how easily she could have stopped him before he'd even started, four words, _I changed my name_.

_One simple sentence that would have changed everything,_ McCoy thought. _But no. She stood there and listened to me make an ass of myself –_

It was easy to be angry with her. McCoy looked back at the image on his screen. _It's always easy to be angry_ , he thought. As he looked at the white face half-hidden by an oxygen mask he wondered for a moment what he would have said to her if their positions had been reversed. There were things _he_ wouldn't, _couldn't_ , talk about. _Could I force the words out to prevent someone – Regan – coming to a damning conclusion?_

"No," he said aloud.

"I can come back," a voice said at the door.

He turned and saw Detective Robert Goren, Alexandra Eames just behind him.

"Talking to myself," McCoy said. "What can I do for you?"

"I need a subpoena," Goren said. "Peter Fraser. Bank accounts."

McCoy reached for a pen and the stack of forms on the corner of his desk. "Because?" he asked, starting to fill in the blanks.

Goren wandered forward, coming to a stop at the corner of McCoy's desk, close enough to be intimidating, although McCoy thought it was probably force of habit rather than deliberate. He ignored Goren and kept writing.

"Because his accomplice is missing and we can't find her," Goren said. "Also, we don't have the gun he used to shoot Mike. We need to have a look at his accounts to prove he bought one, and to see if she's a signatory, if she – hey – isn't that your ADA?"

McCoy looked automatically toward the door but Goren was staring at the screen of his computer. _Dammit_ , McCoy thought. He turned to shut off the screen but Goren was quicker, leaning past him and grabbing the computer mouse to scroll down.

"Wow, I remember hearing about this. Some guy with a semi nearly wiped out the whole HQ. Remember, Eames?"

"No," Eames said.

"Sure you do, this one cop, she shot it out with the guy. Here, here she is – Officer Elish Reagan. Except that's not any Elish Reagan in that picture, is it, Mr. McCoy? That's your ADA. Markham."

"I don't know," McCoy said blandly.

"Looks like her. Looks _just_ like her." Goren put one finger on the computer screen. "Wow, she got hit real hard. _Real_ hard. Harder than Mike, looks like." He swung back to McCoy. "So you put her on Mike's case because you think she'll be more motivated?" Goren shook his head. "What if she can't handle it? I mean, our Captain wouldn't put someone on a case with that kind of personal connection."

"She can handle it."

Goren turned sharply, peering down at McCoy. McCoy kept his eyes on the subpoena form. "How do you know? Have you talked to her? No, you can't have, because you don't know for sure that's her in the picture, you said."

"It's my decision, Detective," McCoy said.

"It's Mike Logan's shooter we're trying to put away," Goren said, voice rising.

"Bobby," Eames said quietly.

"I'm aware of who we're trying to put away," McCoy snapped. "If you want me to call a judge on this subpoena, you'll need to get out of the way. You're _standing_ in front of my phone."

"Oh, sure," Goren said, stepping back. "You do that. Call the judge. I'm just – I'm just going to go talk to – to _Officer Reagan_ down the hall."

McCoy stopped, one hand on the phone. "I don't think that's necessary," he said.

"Can't hurt," Goren said. "Can it? Unless she's too fragile for a few questions. Which makes me wonder if she's too fragile for a high profile, high pressure, _cop shooting_ case. Is that it?"

"She's fine," McCoy said brusquely.

"Great," Goren said, with a big disingenuous grin. "Then there's no reason for me not to congratulate her on her _illustrious_ and _decorated_ police career."

Before McCoy could say anything else, Goren was out the door. Dropping the subpoena on his desk, McCoy took off after him, almost colliding with Eames.

Goren was a tall, long-legged man and he moved fast when he was in a hurry. Still, McCoy almost caught him.

Almost – not quite.

* * *

.oOo.


	36. Cross Examination

_Tenth Floor_

_One Hogan Place_

_Friday 5 January 2007_

* * *

_And then he said …_

Regan stared down at her witness statements, trying to ignore raised voices in McCoy's office. _That as a result of …_

Then a voice said "Officer Reagan," and just like that the world came apart around her.

_This is a room that's supposed to be safe no matter what, but there's blood on the floor and Robbie screaming and she's never heard a sound like that before in her life, that screaming, she'd give anything to make it stop, make it stop, please, stop._

She tried to say something, some denial, even just the words pounding in her head to the rhythm of her pulse _no no no no_ … Her mouth was dry as ashes and she couldn't make a sound. Or maybe she was screaming.

 _Somebody_ was screaming. _Help me, oh god, help me, Ellie, help me …._

"See, I _thought_ so," Goren said. "You look kinda different to the picture, though. Kinda – less _bloody_."

"What do you want?" Regan managed to say. _Blood on the floor and screaming, screaming, screaming – the stutter of gunfire – it's the sound of dying, it's her death coming closer, it's the sound that goes with blood and screaming._

"I'd like to know how 'Officer Reagan' turned into 'Counselor Markham'," Goren said.

A long way away, on the other side of the _screaming and screaming_ , Regan heard McCoy. "I'll handle this," he said, voice carrying the edge of authority. "Detective Goren!"

Regan turned towards McCoy and

 _picks the gun up off the floor_ _and weighs it in her trembling hand. Gotta do it, girl. Get it right. She turns fast around the corner, following the gun, and there he is, and she can't shoot him, not at this distance, and whether he knows that or not he's firing at her, ack-ack-ack deafening indoors and she has to keep moving forward because she's trying to get there in time and then her feet are going sideways out from under her and she falls against the desk._

Goren stepped back a little, shooting a sidelong glance at McCoy

"Regan," McCoy said, and Regan managed to see past the blood and look at him, standing in her doorway, jacket off and sleeves rolled up. He looked soberly at her, and she thought perhaps there was sadness in his eyes. He shook his head a little. "I found a newspaper story online. About a shooting, in Seattle, in police headquarters. The woman in the story, that's you, right?"

_Pain explodes in her side, blinds and suffocates her for a second, can't see can't breathe can't think except to know that if she goes down she's gone, if she gives up she's gone, and she pushes up against the desk and tries to hold up the gun and sucks a breath and tries to hear past the screaming and screaming and screaming._

McCoy was waiting. Regan made herself say something, unable to hear her own voice. "Is it relevant to something?" she asked distantly.

_At first she thinks she's only fallen. It takes seconds for her to understand that she's been hit. It feels like being punched, and then the pain, and then the blood running slick down under her shirt. All Regan can think is stop stop stop and she tries to find something to do or say that will make it stop, make it stop stop stop - but the bullets have torn up her gut and her chest and she can't, she can't – can barely stay up, has to stay up, go down and you're gone –_

"I'd like to know if it's the truth," McCoy said. His voice was quiet and calm.

_What do I do, Gran-Da? What do I do?_

"It's in the newspaper, it must be true," Regan said. The world was shifting and turning around her with too much blood for her to tell if she'd managed to get those words out aloud. She could see McCoy through the haze narrowing her vision and she wanted to beg him, beg him for what she didn't know, but those were the only words in her head in her own voice: _please, Jack, please. Please._

And then McCoy was gone, and the big detective from Major Case was there again and Regan felt everything sliding away from her.

_Go down and you're gone, girl. Go down and you're gone._

"That's only part of the story though, isn't it?" Goren said impatiently, edging past McCoy. McCoy opened his mouth and Goren turned his shoulder to him. "The story in the paper ends with you getting shot. But now here you are." He loomed over Regan and she shrank back in her chair.

_Go down and you're gone – but the gun is so heavy and it's getting heavier and she hurts, she hurts so much, and she can't breathe, all she's breathing is blood and it hurts and Robbie is screaming and it's getting so dark and so cold._

_Go down and you're gone._

"What happened, Officer Reagan? Didn't have the nerve to go back on the line?"

Goren's words rattled around in her head for a moment before she understood them and then white-hot rage brought him real and clear and present and Regan found herself on her feet, fists clenched, face pushed into his. _Didn't have the fucking nerve?_

"I wasn't on the line," she said, sharp and hard. "I got winged a while before. The bullet damaged the nerves in my arm and shattered my elbow. I can still fire a gun but I never could pass my marksmanship exam – and I tried ten times. Now, can I _help_ you with something?"

"But you were still in uniform, weren't you, when it happened?" Goren said. _Uniform. Blue, violet with blood._ "Yeah, because in the picture, when they were taking you to the ambulance, you were in uniform."

_It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. And he's screaming and screaming and there's blood on the floor and blood soaking her uniform and the gun, the gun, the gun weighs so much she can't believe that she can even raise it, let alone keep a steady bead on the perp, but she has to,_

"You wear a uniform on a desk in Seattle PDHQ," Regan said.

 _She takes another step, another. Past the desk where Louisa Carlotti is lying face down with the back of her head missing. Not looking, but she can see, despite darkness hazing the edges of her vision, can see the blood, can see the bodies, can see_ _**everything** _ _. Another step._

"You got shot riding a desk? That's tough luck."

_She wants to tell Robbie to hold on. She wants to tell him she's there. But she can't get air to speak when every breath she takes bubbles and whistles and every breath gives her less and less oxygen and hot blood soaks her shirt and trousers._

_She wants to tell him to please, please shut up. The screaming goes right through her. She can't stand it. Please, stop, stop, make it stop._

_Blood in her mouth. Blood on the floor. Blood –_

Regan thought she answered him. She could feel her lips moving, but she could also feel the weight of the gun in her hand, so heavy, weighing as much as a life, heavy as death – and her hands were empty.

_She has to keep the gun up. It would be easier if he'd stop screaming._

_If I get out of here now – if I get –_ her mouth moved, Goren's did, Eames – but Goren was between her and the door and there was nowhere for her to go, nowhere except the one place she always was.

_She has to hold up the heavy heavy gun. Has to stay on her feet. Has to ignore the screaming. If only he would stop, stop, please, stop, just for a minute, please. Please!_

Goren reached out one long arm across the doorframe, blocking her exit. 

 _Robbie makes one last sound, a sound that might be her name, and the screaming stops. A wave of relief washes over Regan at the silence. The screaming has, thank god, thank god, finally stopped. Later, she will be unable to deny that a part of her understood what that silence meant. But the noise was so unbearable that she couldn't even think about it. All she could think was please please please stop, when what that meant was_ _please please please die. And he did. And she thought thank god, thank god._

"Step _back_ ," Regan snarled, desperately reaching for some old trace of tough-cop authority and knowing she was coming up short.

Goren leaned closer and Regan shrank against the wall. "So what happened, counselor? When you got shot in your house? It's got you tied in knots, doesn't it? Must have been bad. Did you get hit hard?"

_And now just the silence, and her pulse, and the roaring in her ears, and the sound of her own bubbling breath._

Regan stared at him, breathing hard. "Yeah, it was bad. Yeah, I got hit hard. Friends got hit harder. I saw their bodies. I listened to them dying. And yeah, it's got me twisted up. What's it got to do with you? You got someone from your squad on the critical list, you want to know how he's going to come back, is that it?"

_It's all a long way away from her and she can't remember what she's doing, here in this room that should always be safe but that's full of so much blood, here with this gun that drags at her arm and pulls her toward the ground._

_What do I do, Gran-Da? What do I do?_

_Man draws down on you, girl,_ _**put him in the ground.** _

"The world breaks everyone," Goren said softly. "And afterward many are strong at the broken places. How did _you_ come back, counselor?"

"I _didn't_ ," Regan said on the hard edge of a sob. "I'm still fucking _there_. Is _that_ what you need to know?"

"Still where?" Goren asked. Regan closed her eyes and turned away from him. "Still _where_ , Officer Reagan?"

_She hears the ack-ack-ack of gunfire and she recognizes it immediately even though it takes her a second to believe her own ears. It comes again as she drags up her pants and then she hears someone screaming and by the time she gets the restroom door open and peers out it's more than one person and the gunfire is coming in long steady bursts._

"Mickey Farrell is on the floor just by the door," Ellie Reagan said. Her voice sounded strange in her ears, but she couldn't work out why, and it was hard to hear, anyway, over the screaming. "He's got his gun out but it's lying on the floor by his hand and he's shot in the chest. He looks at me and he says 'Reagan' and he tries to give me his gun but he can't lift it and then he's not looking at me any more because he's dead. And I'm scared, but I pick up the gun." _Oh god oh god oh god her heart hammers. Oh god oh god oh god. But she doesn't have a choice. There's cops out there, bleeding and screaming, and she doesn't have a choice_.

"What do you do when you pick up the gun?" the big man asked.

"I go around the corner fast and low and I see the son-of-a-bitch on the other side of the room and I yell out at him to drop it, which is a fucking joke because there's no way I can hit him at this distance – " The big man whose name she couldn't remember was looking at her with a kind of patient pity that Reagan couldn't make sense of but it didn't matter, none of it mattered, he was sliding away from her into the dark like everything else.

She took a step forward, the gun heavy in her hand. "I start toward him and he starts firing. I think I've slipped, there's so much fucking blood on the floor, slipped and fallen against the desk and I'm trying to get up and I know I've fallen hard because I can't catch my breath and – " Blood coursed slick down her side and filled her mouth with copper, and the pain came then with a wave of weakness just behind it. Reagan fought to keep her feet. _Go down and you're gone. Go down and you're gone._ "And Robbie's screaming for me to help him and then I know I've been shot, that's why I can't breathe, _I've been shot_ and there's so much blood and a weight, such a weight on my chest, but I have to get closer and I realize there's no more gunfire, the gun is jammed or he's out of bullets and he drops it and he puts his hands up and I think it's over until I realize that there's more than one cop gun in the room and if I go down he'll just pick them all up."

God, it was so hard to breathe, crushing weight on her chest, every breath bubbling. It was so dark, so cold. Reagan tried not to look at the shapes around her, at men and women she'd ridden with and gone bowling with and shot the breeze with, some of them dead, some of them about to be. Tried not to listen to the screaming, but that was impossible, that noise, she'd never heard anything like it, it was impossible to ignore, it was _unbearable_. "Robbie's screaming 'Ellie, Ellie, help me, Ellie' and I can't help him and all I want is for him to _shut up_ because I can't stand it, I can't fucking stand it, and then he makes a sound that might be my name and that's the last thing he says and I'm _relieved_ , I'm so fucking _relieved_ , because at last he's quiet."

_What do I do, Gran-Da? What do I do?_

"And I've got to get closer and my mouth is full of blood and I don't know what to do and I can't breathe and I've got to keep walking and I've got to hold up the gun and it weights as much as a goddamn _Buick._ "

_Man draws down on you …_

She couldn't keep her feet much longer. She was suffocating, chest filling up with air and lung filling up with blood, and she didn't have much longer and she didn't know what she was supposed to _do_ , here in this room full of blood.

 _Put him in the ground_.

Reagan managed to take another step without falling. The room was full of shadows now, and some of them looked like people, and some of them looked like the worst nightmares she'd ever had. Except now she knew that _this_ was the worst nightmare she'd ever had, and there was no way she was going to wake up from it, not ever.

"And then what, Officer Reagan?" someone asked her from the shadows.

"Then – " She couldn't get breath to speak. _Oh god oh god it hurts._ "Then – " _Put him in the ground._

_**Put him in the ground.** _

"Regan," she heard a familiar voice say, and turned her head and saw Jack McCoy, clear and real, even though there was no way he belonged here, there was no way he'd been here, in this room of _blood_ and _screaming_ – but there he was nonetheless, face set, brows drawn together in a thunderous scowl.

"Then what?" Goren insisted again, and Regan opened her mouth to answer him but a gulping sob choked her. She raised the gun, needing to put her whole body into the effort, hand still shaking but close enough now that she couldn't possibly miss. "Officer Reagan?"

_**Put him in the ground.** _

"Detective Goren, that's _enough,_ " McCoy ordered harshly.

Goren half-turned toward McCoy and Regan took the chance to push past him. The floor rocked beneath her and her feet slipped in the blood. As she staggered McCoy seized her arm and his hard grip was a still and certain point in the spinning world. Her vision cleared a little and she looked up to see McCoy's eyes bright with anger. When he spoke, though, his voice was steady and low.

"My office," he said, the only thing she could hear through the noise in her head, and steered her that way with a firm push. Regan stumbled away. At McCoy's office door she turned to see McCoy following her.

Then he swung back and stabbed one finger at Goren. "You're _done_ , detective. Pull that again and I'll personally see to it that One PP pulls your badge."

Regan made it through the door to McCoy's office, stumbling hard enough against the frame to bruise her shoulder, and sank down on his couch, trembling. She folded her arms over her stomach where she could still feel _searing fire and blood coursing hot over her skin_ and rested her head on her knees.

She heard the office door shut and then there was silence for a while. Thinking McCoy had shut the door on her and left her to pull herself together, she closed her eyes and tried to do just that. She could hardly remember what she'd told them, that big pushy cop, and his partner, and Jack McCoy. Only that when she started she couldn't stop.

 _Skoda told you that'd happen._ And she'd thought, _yeah, sure, like I'd ever lose it like that_.

Regan took a deep breath and thought about the white line of a highway disappearing under the wheels of her car, steering wheel smooth under her fingers, engine humming. _Nowhere to go to, nowhere to be. Just the road._

Her pulse began to slow. She sighed, and sat up.

She was badly startled to see McCoy standing silently, leaning against the closed door, hands in his pockets, watching her. Without a word, he went to his desk where a bottle of scotch and a glass sat among the papers and the law books. He poured a shot and held the glass out to her.

When she didn't move McCoy sat down beside her and took one of her hands, putting the glass into it. "Medicinal," he said.

She nodded, and raised the glass in a shaking hand. McCoy wrapped his hands around hers and steadied the glass for her. Regan drank, coughed a little, started to feel better.

McCoy let her hand go and she set the empty glass down on the floor, avoiding his gaze. She didn't know and she didn't want to know what she'd see in his face.

"Elish," he said, and she flinched hard away from him. There was a little silence between them. McCoy broke it first. "You okay?" he asked.

"Can we not talk about it?" Regan whispered.

"If you don't want to," McCoy said.

"Does what I want matter?" Regan asked harshly. "Did what I want matter with that guy from Major Case all over me? When you were looking up internet news stories?"

"If you'd told me, I wouldn't have had to look," McCoy said, a little edge to his voice. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I wanted – I _needed_ it to be _over_ ," Regan said. "I needed it to be in the past. I needed it to be something that happened to somebody else, someone who wasn't me."

"If no-one knows, then it never really happened?" McCoy said. Regan turned to look at him and he was watching her with an expression she couldn't quite read.

"Something like that," Regan said.

"Sometimes that works," McCoy said. "But it doesn't look to me that it's working all that well for you."

"That doesn't make you special or different," Regan said.

McCoy smiled a little. "Skoda?" She nodded. "Elish – " he started to say.

"That's not my name," Regan interrupted. "Don't call me by that name."

"Why - ?"

"That girl – she never left that room." She stared at him, trying to make him understand. "Who she was, what she did – still there. Stayed there. That's not my name."

McCoy shook his head a little, but he said: "Okay. Okay, Regan. But - the headline said – _Hero Cop Kills Cop-Killer_. You shot him?"

* * *

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places.. But those that will not break it kills." Ernest Hemmingway, A Farewell To Arms


	37. No Free Lunch

McCoy hesitated, but he had to know.

"The headline said – _Hero Cop Kills Cop-Killer_ ," he said. "You shot him?"

Something changed in Regan's face. "Man draws down on you," she said, and her voice was very steady and her eyes were colder than cold, "You _put him in the ground_." She was a little frightening with that look on her face and McCoy fought the instinct to move back. The she blinked, and her eyes were her own again. "That's what Grand-Da always said. And he knew."

"Your great-grandfather," McCoy said, everything he knew about her looking a little different in a new context, framed by headlines and newspaper pictures and Regan's strained voice saying _Robbie's screaming 'Ellie, Ellie, help me, Ellie'_ … "And that family you talked about – the no-good Seattle Reagans. What you said – about your husband."

Regan was shaking her head. "Please don't," she said, voice choked. "Please!" She closed her eyes, tears spilling down her cheeks.

McCoy put his hand on her knee. "Okay. Okay. We'll pretend it never happened, if that's what you want."

She rubbed her cheeks with the back of her hand, scrubbing away tears. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry. I never thought – I just – that big cop, he just _got_ to me. I'm sorry."

"It'll be all right," McCoy said. "Regan. It'll be alright."

"It will never be all right," Regan whispered. She dropped her head to her hands, shivering violently.

McCoy hadn't been able to reach her past the bulk of Robert Goren in the moment when he'd heard her say _I_ _ **didn't**_ and seen her come utterly apart, but he was right beside her now, and he put his hand on her shoulder. Regan gave a little gasp and started crying hard, hands pressed over her mouth, shoulders heaving. McCoy ran his hand over her hair and then down her back, feeling the hard knobs of her spine through her jacket, feeling her shaking with sobs. He tugged her gently toward him, and when she didn't resist, drew her to rest against his chest, arms around her.

He'd seen the aftermath of mass shootings – he'd walked the scene when the case was high enough profile that it came straight to the desk of a senior prosecutor, seen the dead on Dr Rodger's table and he'd seen the survivors, too, had prepped them for court, had put them in the witness box and made them live it all over again. The cops who'd been first responders, edgy and strained for days after, the families with grief and horror compounded by the inconceivable, random nature of the violence … McCoy smoothed his hand over Regan's hair. _My mouth is full of blood_ , she'd said, staring past them all, _I don't know what to do and I can't breathe._

_When I saw her in hospital after Walters attacked her,_ McCoy remembered, _that's what she said. 'I couldn't breathe. I didn't know what to do_.'

He could put it together now, her disproportionate reaction to William Perry and his water-balloon full of pig's blood, her friability in the weeks following Walters's attack, how badly the matter in Carthage had affected her, and now this: Mike Logan shot, Chuck Johnson killed, Regan in the cross-fire on the courthouse steps. _I might not be a psychiatrist_ , McCoy thought, _but I know what it's like to live the same nightmare over and over again until you can't wake up from it._

_Mine is all the things that can happen to beautiful young women, all the things I can't stop._

_Regan's comes with gun-fire and suffocation._

At the point where McCoy was beginning to think perhaps he should call Skoda, at last Regan's sobs began to ease. Still, it was a while before her last hiccupping sobs trailed away. She made no move to pull away from his embrace, leaning limply against him. McCoy listened to her breathing slow and deepen and realized she had cried herself to exhaustion and was nearly asleep.

"Regan," he said softly, squeezing her shoulder, and she roused and sat up. Her face was puffy with tears, all traces of makeup erased. She didn't look like the polished ADA who'd come back from Major Case. _She looks like the kind of woman who'd help you move house, and bring beer and pizza as well._

_Or the kind of woman who'd sit with you all night when you were lost so far in the dark that her voice was the only thing leading you back._

"I think you should go home," he said gently. "Get some rest over the weekend."

Regan nodded and sniffled. McCoy thought of her on the subway and didn't like that idea, thought of offering her a cab voucher and didn't like the idea of her going home by herself in a taxi either.

"Tell you what," he said, "hang on for a minute or two and we can split a cab, okay?"

She nodded again, and leaned back wearily as he went to gather his papers. After he finished hunting for a trial transcript he'd need to prepare for an opening argument on Monday morning McCoy looked up to see Regan fast asleep.

He fetched the blanket he kept in the cupboard for nights so late there was no point going home, and spread it over her. After a moment's consideration, he took the risk of waking her and eased her around to lie down properly. Regan stirred and murmured but didn't wake.

McCoy took the transcript out of his bag and settled into his desk chair, pen in hand. He was fully absorbed in the intricacies of the five-year-old murder conviction when the side door of his office swung open.

"Jack – " Arthur Branch said, and McCoy raised his hand warningly. Branch followed his gaze to where Regan slept and frowned. "My office, Jack," he said tightly, and turned on his heel.

McCoy followed him across the hall to the DA's Office and shut the door behind him.

Branch scowled at McCoy from behind his desk. "Do you not hear anything I say to you?" he demanded.

"On the contrary, Arthur," McCoy said, "I heard you very clearly when you said you'd look into Regan Markham's past. But you didn't need to, did you? That's why you didn't care when I told you no Regan Markham ever served in the Seattle PD, or got a degree from Washington."

Branch looked at him for a moment through narrowed eyes. "What have you found out?" he asked eventually.

"Officer Elish Reagan," McCoy said.

Branch sighed. He picked up the paperweight from his desk and turned it over in his hand as he spoke, looking at the glass globe rather than at McCoy. "I gave Ellie Reagan an interview despite her undistinguished academic record because King County asked me for a favor," he said. "Then she turned up and she wasn't just looking for a job. She told me she was looking for a fresh start. She asked me to keep what had happened to her confidential until she was ready. It was a lot to ask."

McCoy remembered Regan's words in the car on the way back from Carthage. _She was looking for a fresh start_ , she'd said, _she worked out there's no such thing_.

He'd thought she was talking about Therese McMillan, but now he understood that she had been talking about herself.

"But you did it. You owe King County?" McCoy asked _._ He pulled out the chair across from Branch and sat.

"Now _they_ owe _me_ ," Branch said, looking at him at last. "And so does Ms Markham."

"And there will come a time when a decorated police officer putting away the bad guys will look good on the evening news," McCoy said acerbically.

"There's no such thing as a free lunch, Jack," Branch said. He shrugged. "So I took her on. I told personnel to leave her record alone. I put her in Fraud and she turned out to be a hard worker, even if she's no Oliver Wendell Holmes. And when I couldn't get _any_ of my ADAs to work with you for longer than a court case, I thought maybe she'd be tough enough to put up with you. Now I can see that was a mistake."

"A mistake?" McCoy said, voice rising a little.

"I can't afford any more scandal in this office, Jack," Branch said. "And Ms Markham's no good to me if she's tabloid fodder."

"Arthur, you're jumping to an unsupported conclusion," McCoy said. "Ms Markham's not the first ADA to catch five on an office couch."

"Spare me your righteous indignation, Jack," Branch said. "I know you. And I have eyes in my head. Don't think I haven't noticed you covering for her, letting things slide."

"As EADA, I have responsibility to manage staff – " McCoy started to say, but Branch cut him off.

"If you want to justify your behavior on the basis of your professional responsibility, make sure no-one can suggest your motivation is other than professional," Branch said.

"I resent your implication," McCoy snapped. "And besides, what adults may or may not do – "

"What a senior prosecutor and his assistant may or may not do while they work together _may_ or _may not_ be a matter for the law, and I have news for you, Jack, employment law has changed since you first found romance over a stack of law reports, but you can believe me it will be a matter for the tabloids." Branch set the paperweight down hard. "This office has taken some hits over the years because of you, Jack, and each time the person sitting in this chair has decided that your value outweighs the cost. I get a different answer to that equation when I apply it to Ms Markham."

The threat was unmistakable.

"What happened to the risk of lawsuits for unjustified firing?" McCoy demanded.

"If you knew as much about employment law as you do about the penal code, you'd know she's a grace-and-favor employee. I can sack her for tying her shoes wrong," Branch said. "And I will."

"Like Serena," McCoy said sourly.

"So you – and she – should remember that. I went out on a limb for her, taking her on. I've paid out political capital over her little lapses and so far I've seen no return. And if she can't get herself together I never will. I'm reaching the point where I'll quit while I'm ahead," Branch said. "Any more embarrassment and I _will_. Of _any_ kind. So get her off your couch and get _Colleen_ to make sure she gets home."

* * *

.oOo.


	38. Caveat Emptor

_Squad Room_

_2-7 Precinct_

_Monday January 7_ _th_ _2007_

* * *

"Hey, Lennie," Megan Wheeler said. "Lieutenant."

Van Buren turned and Briscoe leaned back in his chair. "Hey yourself, Megan," he said. "Howya doing?"

An irrepressible smile broke over her face. "Good," she said. "Good. You hear Mike's sitting up?"

"Yeah, I was in there yesterday," Briscoe said. "You would think he'd just run the 100 in three minutes, the way he was boasting." He studied Wheeler. The shadows were gone from under her eyes, as were the marks of strain around her mouth. _And if she doesn't have a spring in her step then I'm Cleopatra._ "You back on the street?"

Wheeler shook her head. "Board of inquiry into the shooting is tomorrow. But I've been keeping busy." She pulled a sheaf of papers from her pocket. "I ran down the rest of those credit card charges."

Briscoe took the papers from her and when Van Buren craned her neck he tilted them so she could read over his shoulder. "More florists?"

"Some. A wine club. Hey, how did you go with the hooker?" Wheeler asked.

Briscoe shrugged. "We picked her up on a prostitution beef and Fitzgerald offered her a walk if she had anything on Whitford, but no luck. She's in the system."

"No pillow talk?" Wheeler asked.

"Not a lot of talk of any kind," Van Buren said. "What's this one?"

"Sporting goods store on Broadway," Wheeler said. "That's the business name – they trade as "Hole In One". Guess Whitford is a golfer."

Briscoe shook his head. "Nah, that place – it hasn't sold golf-clubs in years. It's a gun shop now."

"Gun shop?" Wheeler said. "Whitford doesn't have a license, does he?"

"No," Briscoe said. "And – let me see – " He moved a few folders on his desk until he found the file he was looking for. "No gun club membership, either."

"So why is he spending sixty five hundred dollars in a gun shop?"

Briscoe reached for his coat. "I'd like to know that myself. Coming?"

"I'm not on the street, Lennie," Wheeler pointed out.

"See if you can pry Ed loose from the guard detail at the hospital," Van Buren suggested. "He's been sitting there all day waiting for Emma Linton – I'll call Ross and suggest he puts someone from Major Case in for the rest of the day." She headed for her office.

"Waiting for who?" Wheeler asked.

"Jeez, Megan, you really are out of the loop," Briscoe said. "Peter Fraser – you remember him, the guy you shot?"

"I remember, Lennie," Wheeler said dryly.

"He had an alibi for the time Mike got shot. The alibi witness is his girlfriend, Emma Linton. Goren is convinced that Fraser's the one we want for Mike – so Linton is lying. And since Fraser has a real, honest-to-goodness alibi for the the pot-shot at Carver that killed that paralegal – the visitor's log at Rikers – Goren thinks that Linton might be the one we want for that. " Briscoe shrugged. "No-one got a good look at the shooter. Alex Eames chased him or her for two blocks but never got close enough to pick if it was a boy or a girl, or to see much besides a camo jacket and cap."

"And they can't pick her up, this Emma?" Wheeler asked.

"She's in the wind," Briscoe said, and shrugged. "Looks like she gave a false name when the Major Case D's talked to her. They've run down every Emma Linton in the city, and there's none that fit. There's an APB with a description and an identikit photofit. But it looks like the best bet is she'll try again on Carver and they'll nab her there. Ed's over at the hospital wearing scrubs and hanging around the room where they have the decoy set up. I'll pick him up and we'll check out the 'Hole in One'."

"Okay," Wheeler said. "Keep me posted, will you?"

"Yeah. And you – on the board," Briscoe said. "Let me know how you go."

"Sure," Wheeler said, touched him lightly on the shoulder, and turned to go.

_Definitely a spring in her step,_ Briscoe thought, watching her walk toward the door. _Nice to know somebody's having a good day._

He turned back to the credit card statement, looking at that six-and-a-half grand charge. _So long as Dr Whitford doesn't._

"Lennie," Van Buren called. "Good to go. Ed'll wait for you two blocks south of the ER."

Stuffing the pages in his pocket, Briscoe grabbed his coat and headed for the door.

Green was waiting where Van Buren had said he was, shoulders hunched against the cold. He jogged across to the car as Briscoe stopped and climbed in, holding his hands out to the heating vent. "Jesus, this weather," he said.

"This is nothing," Briscoe said. "I remember when I was in the bag, one winter it was so cold I got my fingers frozen to my gun on a stakeout."

"Yeah? Well, when I was a kid, one time it was so cold the water in my goldfish tank froze solid."

"Oh, yeah?' Briscoe said, grinning. "When _I_ was a kid – "

"It was so cold Noah had to fit skids to the ark?" Green said.

They bullshitted back and forth as the car sat in traffic for a while. Briscoe thought that Green looked tired, and he said so.

"Nah, just – _frustrated_ ," Green said. "I'm twiddling my thumbs up there, waiting, while Major Case does the detective work. There's no room for me on the case now the great Detective Goren is on it. If I can't be doing my job, I'd rather be working something else, you know?"

"So, now you are," Briscoe said. "Donald Whitford."

"He shoot his wife?"

"Bludgeoned her."

"Then what are we doing _here_?" Green asked as Briscoe pulled up outside 'The Hole In One'.

"He spent sixty five hundred dollars here," Briscoe said. "Early December."

"When did he kill her?"

"October," Briscoe said, and shrugged. "I dunno. The DA's Office wants everything run down. I think their case is in the crapper."

Even the twenty feet between the car and the shop left both men chilled and shivering.

" _Jesus_ , this weather," Green grumbled again.

"Can I help you gentlemen with something?" the storeowner asked, coming out from behind the counter.

Briscoe looked around at the display cases, looking for one that was unlocked or that didn't meet the regs. He couldn't see anything that might give him leverage, and settled for flashing his badge as Green wandered over to take a closer look at the handguns. "Homicide," he said. "We've got some questions for you about a sale you made on – " He checked his papers. "December 7th."

"Has a gun I sold been used in the commission of a crime?" the storeowner asked.

"You know how they always say on the TV, 'We'll ask the questions'?" Briscoe asked, and the storeowner nodded. "We'll ask the questions. What sales did you make on the 7th?"

"Do you have a warrant?' the storeowner asked. "A subpoena?"

"Look – " Briscoe said.

"My clients rely on my discretion."

"C'mon, man," Green said. "This guy took a two-by-four to his wife's head. We know he spent one and a half-thousand dollars in here last month. You can appreciate we'd like to know what he spent it on. He's really not the kind of guy we want running around heavily armed."

"Look at it this way," Briscoe said. "If he _does_ use a gun he bought here to kill somebody, then we _will_ be back with a warrant. For _everything_. And while you're closed down for the duration of what could be a very slow and painstaking search, we'll be calling _all_ your customers. And we'll make sure they know – "

"Okay, okay!' the storeowner said. "Sheesh. It's like Stalinist Russia these days, I tell ya!" He reached beneath his counter and pulled out a laptop. "Okay, so, 7 December. Sixty five hundred?"

"Yeah."

"Just one sale for that exact amount," the storeowner said. "I remembered, I gave him a discount to round it down. Here you go – Donald Whitford." He turned the laptop around so Briscoe and Green could read it.

"Sig-Saur 2000," Briscoe read. "Schmidt & Bender sight. Winchester Magnum ammunition." He looked at the storeowner. "How come you sold this gun to a guy who didn't have a license?"

"It wasn't for him," the storeowner said. "It was for his daughter – and she had a license." He tapped the screen. "See?"

Green read aloud. "Hunting license issued November 1998."

* * *

.oOo.


	39. Concealment

_Mercy Hospital_

_6 pm Monday January 7_ _th_ _2007_

* * *

"We're going to lock this guy up, Mike," McCoy said. He leaned forward in his chair.

"Yeah, yeah," Logan said. "Save your boasting for after the trial, counselor."

"That wasn't a boast," McCoy said quietly. "It was a promise."

"Oh, big shot," Logan said, but he was smiling. "Well, I'll be reassured that you're getting smarter in your old age. Or maybe you're getting lazy. Once upon a time, you'd never be out of the office this early."

"Once upon a time, I had to spend hours putting together cases brought to me by cops who thought I should be able to get a ham sandwich indicted," McCoy shot back, and Logan chuckled faintly. McCoy didn't add that the feeling of having Branch watching his every move had made it difficult to concentrate in the office, and he was taking work home. _Trying to prepare a case when I have to be aware that every word I say to my assistant might be scrutinized …_ The best he'd been able to do was a quick aside as Regan handed over the day's arraignments.

" _You okay?"_

" _Hanging in there."_

She'd looked as if she might be going to say more but then McCoy had seen Branch in the corridor and he'd turned away, deliberately brusque, aware that Regan would take it as a rebuff.

_Better she curse me for a heartless bastard than have to deal with Arthur's assumptions._

_Damn him, anyway._

The door opened and Lennie Briscoe stuck his head through. "Mike, Jack. Am I interrupting?'

"No," McCoy said, standing up. "I just dropped by to update Mike on the Fraser case."

"Apparently our chief suspect is a ham sandwich," Logan said.

"Again?" Briscoe said with such perfectly pitched amazement that McCoy was still chuckling when he reached the street.

His jacket blocked the cold wind but icy blasts cut straight through his jeans. _Should have realized this morning it was too cold to ride,_ he thought, hurrying toward his bike.

"Hey, Mr McCoy!"

McCoy turned to see Gina Lowe waving at him from the hospital entrance. He took a few steps back towards her as she trotted down the steps to meet him.

"Are you going in to see Mike?' she asked.

"Just been," McCoy said. "He looked pretty good."

'He's doing _fantastic_ ," Gina said, beaming. "After that fever, you know, the doctors weren't happy, but he's turned the corner."

"That's great, Gina," McCoy said. He shivered, turning his back to the wind. "You should get inside before you freeze. I'm gonna get out of here."

"Drive safe," Gina said, and hurried back toward the doors.

McCoy pulled on his helmet and swung his leg over the bike, in a hurry to get the trip home started and thus over with as soon as possible. Down the block, he heard a car engine turn over and glanced toward the sound. A beige SUV was pulling out into the traffic. McCoy waited for it to go by.

Instead, it came directly toward him.

* * *

.oOo.


	40. Deliberate Accidents

McCoy didn't realize the SUV was heading straight for him until it was almost too late. As its headlights blinded him he instinctively gunned the throttle and the bike leapt forward.

For an instant he thought he would be able to keep ahead of the SUV and ride off down the street, but the next second he felt the bike's wheels lose traction on a patch of ice and he began to slide sideways.

Everything seemed to happen very slowly and impossibly quickly at the same time. McCoy wrestled for control of the motorcycle as parked cars loomed ahead of him, sharply aware that he was on the wrong side of the road. He heard the SUV brake and couldn't work out why – he was well and truly out of its path now. As the bike's wheels bit clean asphalt and he managed to straighten it a little, a split-second glance over his shoulder showed him the SUV swerving to follow him onto the wrong side of the road.

Any possibility that the driver had simply been inattentive vanished. McCoy swung the bike hard back to the right side of the road, heading for a gap between two parked cars too narrow for the SUV to follow. The SUV clipped his wheel almost as he reached it and the motorcycle jumped sideways, careening into one of the cars and skidding into the gap between them.

As the alarm in the car he'd hit began to go off, McCoy tried to right the bike, thinking the SUV would make another pass. The headlights blinded him and the engine revved menacingly – but as he struggled to get the bike upright, the SUV turned with a squeal of tires and sped off into the night.

McCoy sagged against the car, his leg beginning to ache where it had been squeezed between the motorcycle and car.

"Oh, my god, Mr McCoy!" He realized Gina Lowe was trying to reach him past the bike and collected himself to heave it away and lean it against another car. "She was trying to kill you!"

"I think you're right," McCoy said. He tried to take a step toward the pavement and winced.

"Lean on me," Gina ordered, pulling his arm over her shoulders. "Let's get you into the ER. You whacked into that parked car pretty good."

McCoy let her help him, limping, back into the hospital.

"Can you go and get Lennie Briscoe from Mike's room?" McCoy asked her.

"In a minute," Gina said. "Let me get you a doctor, first." They were in the waiting area and she steered him to a chair.

"I don't need a doctor," McCoy said. "It's just a bruise."

"We'll let the doctor decide that," Gina said firmly, and headed away.

There were definitely advantages to turning up at Emergency with a health care worker, McCoy decided, as he found himself in a cubicle a few minutes later.

"I'll be back when I find Lennie," Gina said, as McCoy started filling in the forms on the clipboard the ER nurse gave him.

"Sure," McCoy said, and then realized the ER nurse, holding a pair of scissors, thought he was talking to _her_. "No – "

_Too late._ His jeans were neatly sliced up the left leg. _Dammit._

"The doctor will be along in a minute," the nurse said, taking the clipboard back and giving him a cold-pack. "Stay on the bed, and keep icing it."

McCoy nodded, and waited until she was out of earshot before taking out his cell. He dialed Colleen Petraky's line.

It rang several times, and then he heard Regan Markham say: "Colleen Petraky's phone."

"Regan," McCoy said. "Colleen's not there?"

"Left about ten minutes ago," Regan said. "Do you want me to leave her a note?"

"No, I – " He hesitated. _Arthur will have my hide. Or hers._ "Regan, can you do me a favor? I need you to get a pair of pants from the rack in my office and bring them down to Mercy."

"Do I want to know how you lost your pants visiting Mike Logan?" she asked, dryly amused.

"An over-enthusiastic ER nurse with a pair of scissors," McCoy said.

There was a brief silence on the end of the phone. "If you crashed that goddamn bike," Regan said at last, very evenly, "I swear to god I will – "

"I didn't," McCoy interrupted. "Someone tried to run me down."

Another silence. "What happened? Are you - ?"

"I'm fine. Bruised, a little. And I need a pair of pants," McCoy said.

"I'll be right there," Regan said.

She was as good as her word. Twenty minutes later, McCoy was still waiting for Briscoe, and the doctor, when he heard heels tapping fast along the corridor, almost at a run, and Regan appeared around the curtain.

"Jack," she said, a little out of breath, and stopped, looking him over. McCoy guessed he couldn't look that bad because Regan let out a breath, shoulders slumping in relief.

"I told you – I'm fine," McCoy said.

"Yeah," Regan said. She dropped the paper bag she was carrying on the bed by his feet. "Pants," she explained. "What happened?"

He told her, told the story again when Gina came back with Briscoe, told it a third time when a doctor turned up to look at his leg, starting to swell a little.

"I think we need to get a scan," the doctor said. "Rule out a break or a swelling hematoma."

"I've had worse playing basketball," McCoy told him.

"Yeah, if you play basketball on a _freeway_ ," the doctor said, and wrote something on the chart. "Stay there."

Briscoe had his notebook out. "So it was a beige or a light tan SUV, plate unknown. Anything else? Cracked tail-light, anything?"

"No," McCoy said. "I didn't see much." Then something Gina had said came back to him. "Gina – you said 'she' was trying to kill me. Did you see the driver?"

"Uh-huh," Gina said. "She was young, dark hair."

"Did you see her face? Could you ID her?" Briscoe asked. "If we had a suspect?"

"Sure," Gina said. "I mean – I'm sure I'd recognize her. I noticed her before she took a run at Mr McCoy, because – well, the funny thing is, she was the spitting image of Emma Linton."

* * *

.oOo.


	41. Motorcycles And Other Health Hazards

"Emma _Linton_?" Briscoe said. "You know _Emma Linton_?"

"I knew her, sure," Gina said.

"Do you know where she is? Where she might be?" Briscoe asked.

"What?" Gina said. "What do you mean – is this some kind of joke?"

"It's no joke," Briscoe said. "The whole NYPD is looking for Emma Linton – she's the main suspect in the courthouse shooting."

"No, that's – you're misunderstanding. You must mean a different Emma Linton. My Emma – she's dead." She shrugged. "When I was working as a private nurse. She was a patient."

_Emma Linton_ , McCoy thought, the name meaning something, something just at the edge of his mind. _Dead_. "Gina – did she die of medical malpractice?"

"Yeah, her doctor made a mistake with the prescribing pad and she ended up with liver and kidney failure," Gina said.

"Dr Conlon," McCoy said, remembering.

"Maybe," Gina said. "I don't know."

"And she had a sister," Regan said. She'd moved back to the door when the others arrived but now she took a step forward, gaze catching McCoy's.

"Who nursed her," McCoy said.

"Eileen," Gina said, nodding.

"Oh my god," Regan said softly, and McCoy nodded.

"Is somebody going to let me in on the secret?" Briscoe asked.

"Emma Linton was Donald Whitford's sister-in-law," McCoy said. "His kids inherited her money."

"His kids, Tom and Emma," Regan added. "Emma would be, what, late teens, now?"

"Donald Whitford bought a Sig Saur sniper rifle for his daughter on December 7th,' Briscoe said. "But she can't be late teens. The license was issued nine years ago."

"Emma used to shoot," Gina said. "Emma Linton, I mean. Before she got so sick. She had a bunch of trophies in the house."

"What're the odds the gun-seller looked at the picture, looked at the number and the name – didn't notice the discrepancy in the dates?" McCoy asked.

"Goran and Eames are the only two who've seen Peter Fraser's girlfriend 'Emma Linton' in the flesh," Briscoe said. "Let me get onto them. They ought to eyeball Emma Whitford."

"Find out what kind of car her father drives, too," McCoy said.

"You said it clipped you?" Briscoe asked, turning back at the door. When McCoy nodded, he said: "I'll get the boys in motor to take a look. There might be paint."

When he'd gone, Regan and McCoy looked at each other for a minute. "Emma Whitford," Regan said at last, shaking her head. " _Emma_ _Whitford_."

"Everyone thought Carver was in Fraser's sights because of the role he played in Leonie Fraser's conviction," McCoy said. "No-one thought to remark on the fact that he was on his way into to argue a motion _in limine_ on the Whitford case."

"And now you've taken the case back … " Regan said. "Jesus, Jack, what if she'd used a gun again?"

McCoy had another, colder, thought. _I'm not the only one on the case._ He kept his mouth shut. He'd talk to Briscoe about possible danger to the cops – _to Regan_.

"She didn't," McCoy said. "And they'll have her wrapped up before she can do anything else."

Regan didn't look convinced, but before he could reassure her further a nurse pulled the curtain aside with a clatter.

"Mr – " she looked down at her clipboard. "McCoy. I'm here to take you up for your scan." She looked at Regan. "You'll have to wait down here, ma'am."

"Okay," Regan said meekly, then to McCoy: "I'm going to – " She paused, and then her words came in a rush. "I'm going to go see Mr Carver, when – when it happened I just took off running, I didn't – I didn't even look to see if he'd been hit and I _left_ him there so I – _"_

"Regan," McCoy interrupted. 'Didn't anyone tell you?"

She paled. "When?" she asked numbly, and McCoy realized the conclusion she'd drawn.

"No, no," he said quickly. "He's fine. He wasn't hit. There's a decoy upstairs to try and lure Emma Linton in. Carver's in a safe house with his family."

Regan blinked at him, and then reached out blindly to the bed for support. "I thought – " she said, gasped, and sat down suddenly on the edge of the bed.

"Ma'am?" the nurse said alertly. "Were you in the accident too, ma'am?" She took Regan's arm.

"No," Regan said. "I wasn't in the accident. I'm fine, really." She took a deep breath. "Just a little startled."

"Have you eaten today, ma'am?" the nurse said, not letting go of Regan's arm.

"Yes, yes," Regan said impatiently. "I told you, I'm fine. I'll just wait here for Mr McCoy."

Enough color had come back to her cheeks for the nurse to accept her assurances, and McCoy allowed himself to be helped into a wheelchair and taken off to radiography. He'd considered refusing the chair, but his leg was really starting to hurt now.

As he waited in radiography, McCoy thought, not for the first time, that hospitals moved almost as slowly as the wheels of justice. Finally he was being wheeled back down to the ER.

Hospitals moved slowly, but police work, on the other hand, could move pretty fast when a case started to break. When the orderly wheeled McCoy back into the ER, not only was Briscoe was ready with a report but Arthur Branch had turned up, obviously straight from a dinner somewhere from his dinner suit.

"We're going to get this woman, Jack," Branch said. "It is _not_ open season on the DA's Office."

"Glad to hear it," McCoy said, pain making him sharp.

"So forensics took a preliminary look at your bike," Briscoe interrupted tactfully, "and they don't think there's anything they'll be able to match to the car. From the look of things the clip was bumper-to-wheel. But if we find the car, there'll be marks on the bumper we can match."

"Whitford's car?" Regan asked.

"Dr Whitford recently bought a Ford Explorer and Megan Wheeler caught the dealer before he left for the night – the car Whitford bought is 'ecru', which Megan tells me is a fancy way of saying beige."

"That's indicative. It won't get you a warrant," Branch cautioned.

"If he doesn't have off-street parking we won't need one," Briscoe said. "Goren and Eames are on their way to the Whitfords right now. They've got the plate number and description of the car, and they'll scope the street for it. And if they ID Emma Whitford as Emma Linton, they're going to pick her up and bring her in. We'll get her in a line-up for Gina to look at."

"It's getting late," McCoy said. "Tomorrow morning wouldn't be an unreasonable delay."

Briscoe nodded. "We can sweat her overnight. But we'll get the lineup ready to go, in case her lawyer is on the ball."

"So what's the thinking on this?" Branch asked, "She shot Mike for Fraser, and then shot at Carver because he was prosecuting her father? Fraser gave her a false alibi for the first one – but she drew the line at Serena?"

"When it gets this squirrelly," Briscoe said. "I like to stick to what we know. She bought the gun. She tried to turn Mr McCoy into roadkill. Let's start with that. The Major Case Ds can play around with triangulating motivations or whatever they do. Me, I like the who-what-where."

"I'm going to head back to Hogan Place," Regan said. "I want to catch this one in Complaints."

"No!" McCoy said instantly. _I'm not the only one working on Whitford._ Branch was shaking his head as well.

"Not a good idea, Ms Markham," he said. "If we end up charging her for the courthouse shooting, you'll be a witness. You can't be on the case."

"I'll ring – Fitzgerald," McCoy said. "He's bright, and keen. He'll walk it through."

"So what do you want me to do?" Regan asked.

"When they let me out of here, you can come back with me to the office and we'll line up the ammunition for whoever interviews Emma Whitford," McCoy said.

"I'm sorry, Jack," Branch said, shaking his head. "Neither of you are going to be anywhere near this. Hand it off to someone else – to Tracey Kibre, maybe. You're both going to find yourselves on the stand for this one."

"If they try to –" McCoy started to say.

" _No_ , Jack," Branch said. "Don't tell me that you can tap-dance your way through a conflict. I'm sure you can, but it's exhausting for everyone else in the office who has to keep up with your quick-step."

"I'm supposed to go home and wait?" McCoy said.

"Neither you nor Ms Markham are going home," Branch said. "There's a crazy woman who may or may not have a handgun and a sniper rifle and who seems to have a grudge against anyone prosecuting Donald Whitford."

McCoy had thought about the danger to Regan, but it hadn't really occurred to him that Emma Whitford might try to finish with a gun what she'd started with a car. He looked at Regan, who'd gone pale. "I hope the hotel you're putting us up in is five-star, Arthur," he said, deliberately testy, and saw the ghost of a smile on Regan's lips.

"Not quite," Branch said. "But you certainly won't be uncomfortable. I've talked to the governor and he's sending a couple of members of his protective detail to meet you. Detective Briscoe will take you over. There's a blue-and-white waiting at the staff entrance."

"What about Serena?" McCoy asked.

"We already had her under wraps," Briscoe said. "Wheeler's over there now. Don't worry about Serena. Now, Jack, I need to ask you – if this woman, Emma Whitford or Emma Linton, finds out where you live, is there anybody there who might be in danger? A friend with keys?"

"No," McCoy said. He tried to remember the last woman who'd had keys to his apartment. _Christine Danielson_ , and only because she'd insisted, asking him if he expected her to wait in the hall? "No, no-one."

"Regan?" Briscoe asked.

"No-one," she said. "But – I need to go home, Lennie, if we're going to stay – I need some things."

"Don't worry, honey," Briscoe said. "The hotel will have everything you need tonight. Tomorrow, we'll have her in custody, and you can go home to your own place."

Regan nodded, looking a little lost.

"Regan," McCoy said, and then under Branch's watchful eye changed what he was about to say. "Will you keep an eye out for the nurse so she doesn't catch me on my cell phone while I'm calling Fitzpatrick? And Kibre?"

Regan stepped back to where she could watch the corridor. "This isn't in my job description," she said drily.

"Sure it is," McCoy said, dialing. "Under 'other duties as required'."

He got a smile out of her, but it was a small one. It wasn't until he dropped the crutches they'd given him while getting into the squad car that Regan seemed to wake from her daze. She steadied him quickly, putting him into the car with an easy competence that spoke of experience, then gathered his crutches and jogged around to the other side of the car to get in.

"How are you feeling?" she asked as Briscoe got in the front and the uniformed officer driving turned key in the ignition.

"Sore," McCoy admitted. The doctor had cleared him of anything worse than bad bruising and he'd been discharged with crutches, painkillers, some kind of ointment and instructions to keep off his feet. That last seemed very sensible right at the moment.

"That'll happen when you get hit by a car," Briscoe said from the front seat.

"I told you that motorcycle was a health-hazard," Regan said.

"If I'd been in a car I would never have been able to dodge," McCoy pointed out.

"If you'd been in a car hitting you would have made her airbags deploy and she'd have been knocked out long enough for someone to nab her," Regan countered.

"And _my_ airbags would have deployed and _I'd_ have been knocked out and she could have walked up to me and finished the job," McCoy said.

They argued about it all the way to the hotel.

Their check-in was already taken care of. Two tall and muscular men in suits met them in the lobby and hurried them into the elevator, not making much allowance for McCoy's limp. In the elevator they introduced themselves as John and Michael and issued stern warnings: do not open the door to anyone you do not recognize, no room service, stay away from the windows, and _stay in your room_. Their evident seriousness made McCoy uneasy, and he saw Regan swallow hard. _They're probably just being extra cautious,_ McCoy thought. _There probably isn't a 'moderate threat' setting for bodyguards._

"We'll be in the hall," Michael finished. "Nobody will get near your room without going over both of us."

"You going to be standing guard, too, Lennie?" Regan asked.

He shook his head. "That's a job for somebody younger and fitter. No, I'll be downstairs in the lobby with Ed, when he gets here. If she comes in, we'll nab her before she can get near the elevator." He put his hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry, honey. You're safe."

"These are just precautions," McCoy said, and Regan gave him a wan and grateful smile.

Still, McCoy was glad to be inside his room. Michael came in with him while John took Regan into the adjoining room next door, and searched the room thoroughly, _in case_ , McCoy thought, _Emma Linton/Whitford got in while they were downstairs_. Then, pointing out the pile of toiletries and pajamas on the bed, the bodyguard bid him a polite goodnight, and left, locking the door behind him.

McCoy sank down on the bed. His leg was beginning to throb, and the ride in the squad-car had been more taxing than he'd wanted to admit. He ripped open the paper bag from the hospital pharmacy and contemplated the bottle of pills. It took a short battle with the child-proof lid to get it open. He shook two pills into the palm of his hand. About to toss them back, he looked at the door that led to Regan's room.

Branch's quiet warning to _stay in your_ _ **own**_ _room, Jack_ , murmured as he got ready to follow Regan and Briscoe from the ER, came back to him.

_I should make sure she's alright_ , he thought, dismissing thoughts of Branch.

He dropped the pills back into the bottle and recapped it, then limped to the door and knocked.

"Yeah?" Regan said cautiously.

"It's me – Jack," he said.

"Hold on." After a moment she opened the door. Her blouse was buttoned crooked, and McCoy realized he'd interrupted her as she was getting ready for bed.

He held out the pill bottle toward her. "The tamper-proof seal has defeated me," he said with his best rueful smile.

Regan took the bottle and opened it with a expert twist, then offered it back to him silently.

"You do that like you had a lot of practice," McCoy said, taking the bottle.

"Don't play dumb, Jack, it doesn't suit you," Regan said shortly.

He accepted the rebuff and turned away. He hadn't taken more than a few limping steps when Regan cleared her throat.

"It was a long road back," she said quietly, apology in her voice, and then: "You should be lying down. I'll get you some water for the painkillers."

"I'd prefer scotch," McCoy said, limping toward the bed.

"Contraindicated," Regan said.

"You could have one," McCoy pointed out.

"Contraindicated for me too at the moment," she said. She poured him a glass of water and brought it to him as he sank down on the bed.

"So, you got any big plans for the night?" McCoy asked, taking the glass. He shook out a couple of pills and swallowed them with the water.

"Well, going out dancing seems to be out of the question. 'To Kill A Mockingbird' on Classic Movies is looking pretty good." She took a step toward the door, but only one.

"Defense counsel as hero – not a usual favorite in the DA's Office." McCoy leaned back against the pillows, watching Regan as she hesitated, not leaving, not staying.

"Oh, come on!" Regan said. "You never wanted to be Atticus Finch?"

McCoy shook his head. "I wanted to be the DA who would decline to prosecute Tom Robinson."

Regan stopped still and looked at him. "You are," she said at last, softly.

"Maybe," he said, giving her the patented, cynical Jack McCoy grin, the one he brought out whenever an ADA made an admiring comment. A little bit cocky, a little bit self-deprecating, it never failed to move admiration a little further along the road to infatuation. It had made Abbie roll her eyes, smiling despite herself, it had made Alex Borgia blush.

But Regan didn't blush, or smile, or look away. And it was McCoy who heard the interruption of the ringing phone with a sense of relief.

* * *

.oOo.


	42. Hostile Witness

_Whitford home_

_Manhattan_

_8 pm Monday January 7th 2007_

* * *

"How do you want to play this?" Eames asked, peering through the windscreen of the car at the brownstone across the street.

Goren made a non-committal noise, and then said: "You talked to her. Your call."

"Yeah, I obviously didn't talk to her _enough_ ," Eames said. "She snowed me."

"We weren't looking," Goren said. "Now we are. She's already seen us play this one way. Question is, change up or more of the same?"

"Not the only question," Eames said, not reaching for the door handle. "You got any more surprises for me?"

Goren looked sideways at her, and Eames could tell he was gauging just how far an air of injured innocence would take him. She narrowed her eyes, her glare telling him _No-fucking-where, Bobby_ , and he shrugged ruefully. "No surprises," he said.

He cracked the door a little, letting a trickle of icy air into the car, but Eames sat still. "I've been waiting all weekend for you to tell me what that was last Friday."

"What _what_ was – " Goren started and Eames slapped her hand on the dash, hard enough to make him jump.

"Cut the crap," she ordered. "This is _me_. And I went along with you, and you owe me an explanation why you were treating an ADA like a suspect."

Goren nodded, acknowledging her point, and shut the car door again. He paused, ordering his thoughts, and Eames let him take his time. At last he turned to her, awkwardly because no car had been built that was made to be comfortable for a man as tall as Robert Goren. "Don't you wonder about the other gun?"

Eames blinked at him. "The handgun? Sure, but it's not hard to buy a hot gun in this city – " She stopped. Goren was shaking his head.

"Not _that_ other gun. The other gun that the shooter at Seattle PDHQ had. The one he was reaching for when Elish Reagan shot him in the head."

"No," Eames said testily. "I don't wonder about the other gun."

"I do," Goren said. He scratched his forehead with one finger, avoiding her gaze. "I wonder, for example, why he didn't draw it as soon as his first weapon was out. Reagan had to walk, what, ten feet? Shot in the gut? How long would that take you, twenty seconds? Why did he wait until she was right on top of him to pull out his other gun?"

"Maybe for the same reason he sprayed bullets all over a police squad room," Eames said. "Crazy son-of-a-bitch."

"Maybe," Goren said, not sounding convinced.

"Or?" Eames prodded.

"You think they've heard of _thrown-downs_ over on the West Coast?" Goren asked quietly, not looking at her.

Eames stared at him. "You think it was – you're saying – _no_ , Bobby."

He shrugged. "I don't know. But I'd sure like to know why – "

"You're goddamn right you don't know," Eames snapped. "You weren't there, you didn't investigate it, you don't know _anything_ about it. Bobby, the woman's husband was shot in front of her. She put a bullet in the son-of-a-bitch who did it and good luck to her. Frankly, I don't _care_ if the shooter was reaching for another weapon."

"Yes you do," Goren said softly. "You do, Eames. Because you're a _cop_. And it _matters_. And you know it does." At last he turned to look at her. "Because it's the difference. Between us and – and everybody else who carries a gun."

Eames met, but couldn't hold, his gaze. She stared out the windscreen at the street for a moment. "You can't go poking into this right now, Bobby," she said. "Not right now."

"I thought I could make a couple of – "

" _No_." Her voice was as hard as she could make it. _Non-negotiable_ , _Bobby._ "Not right now. You still think there's something there in a few months, you sit down with ADA Markham and you ask her about it. _Politely._ And then if you're not happy, we'll talk about it. But no crusades. You hear me?"

"In a couple of months, she won't be – " Goren started to protest.

"You know why I work with you?" Eames interrupted.

"Because nobody else will?" Goren said with a forced chuckle, the way he always did when the subject came up. _Like it doesn't matter_ , Eames thought. _Like he doesn't care._

"Because I'm the one who tells you to stop when you go too far," Eames said, more gently than she'd planned.

Goren paused, then nodded. "Okay, that's – that's fair," he admitted.

"Stop, Bobby," Eames said. "Just – stop."

He nodded again. "Okay. Okay, no – no _poking_. Until you say otherwise."

"Deal," Eames said. She reached for the door handle. "As for Emma Whitford? More of the same. At least to start with."

They crossed the road and climbed the steps to the Whitford's front door. Before ringing the bell, Eames turned to peer down the street. The CSU techs were working on Whitford's 'ecru' SUV, parked right there on the street with marks on the bumper that were just the right height to match McCoy's bike. They'd rung Tracey Kibre, just to be sure, and Kibre said "Probable cause", so there they were, photographing and scraping and measuring.

"I have a good feeling about this," Eames told Goren, and rang the bell.

Donald Whitford was a middle-aged man, getting portly and going bald. Eames wouldn't have looked at him twice on the street, but she'd seen enough since joining Major Case to know that _looking_ and _being_ harmless were two unrelated propositions.

She held up her badge and Whitford started to close the door. Goren leaned past Eames and put his hand on the door before it could close.

"Dr Whitford," Eames said. "Can we come in and talk to you?"

"No," Whitford said. "If you think I'm going to let you into my house after what the NYPD and the DA have put me and my family through, you're out of your mind."

"We have a report that your car was involved in an accident earlier tonight," Eames said.

"That's impossible," Whitford said. "It's just down the street."

_One for us_ , Eames thought. _Now he can't claim later it was stolen._ And then, hard on the heels of that thought, _he doesn't know._

"We've seen it," Goren said. "It's dinged on the front bumper. Consistent with the reported accident. We really need to sort this out, Dr Whitford. Have you been home all evening?"

"Yes," Whitford said sharply. "And the car's been there since I got home. If someone backed into me while parking, then that's a shame. But it has nothing to do with any accident."

He was planted firmly in the doorway, and Eames could tell he wasn't about to let them in. _Change tack_. She shifted her weight uneasily from foot to foot. "Dr Whitford," she said, "this is really embarrassing, but could I use your bathroom? Even since I had the baby, when I have to go, I just have to – could I come in and use your bathroom?"

Whitford hesitated, but Eames had read him right. He stepped back from the door. "All right, but be quick," he said.

"Thank you so much," Eames said as Goren followed her inside.

"Down the hall, on the left," Whitford told her, pointing.

Eames headed that way, but paused as Goren said: "Dr Whitford, is this your daughter?" She turned back to see Goren holding a framed photograph he'd taken from the hall table.

"Yes," Whitford said. "Put that back, please."

Goren turned the photo so Eames could see it: Whitford, a young boy, and a teenage girl with a round, pleasant face and a cloud of light brown hair. _Not the girl I met._ She felt a little deflated.

"Emma, right?" Goren asked. "That color hair – takes after your wife?"

"Yeah," Whitford said.

"What did you think when she dyed it?" Goren asked.

Whitford looked puzzled. "She's never dyed her hair," he said.

_Crap_ , Eames thought, leaving them to it and heading for the bathroom. She snibbed the lock and pulled a pair of latex gloves from her pocket, snapping them on before opening the cupboard over the sink.

Her search took less than two minutes, beginning to end: a mental note of the prescriptions on the shelves, a rummage through the drawers – _I don't know what I'm expecting to find_ , she thought sourly, _and it's not like anything I_ _ **do**_ _find is admissible._ Habits, however, were hard to break, and years of police work had taught her that opportunities to add pieces to the picture of her suspects shouldn't be overlooked.

_Nothing_. She looked under the sink, aware of seconds ticking away. _No giant honking sign saying 'I am a murderer'_ , Eames thought. She pulled out the trash basket and poked through it. _Empty packet of tampons_ , _cotton balls, used tissue_ … A flash of metallic paper caught her eye and she dug out a cardboard box with a cartoon of a woman with long black hair on the front. _Allian Hair Paint_ , she read. _Wash in, wash out._

Eames took a long look at the beads of water on the shower screen. She dropped the box back in the trash and shoved the basket back where she'd found it, then got down on her hands and knees and looked at the shower drain. _Yep._ Definitely traces of black in the groove around the hole.

She flushed the toilet and pulled off her gloves, stuffing them in her pocket before she opened the door.

Goran's voice came from down the hall and she followed the sound. As she came closer she could make out his words. "That must have been a worry to you," he was saying. "I know, these days, teenage girls – it's just a constant minefield, isn't it?"

When Eames got to the living room Goren and Whitford were standing on opposite sides of the room but Eames didn't think they were at odds. Goren glanced at her as she came into the room and held up another picture of Emma Whitford, same hair, thinner in the face. "Dr Whitford was just telling me how his daughter lost her appetite after her mother died."

"She looks like she lost a lot of weight," Eames said. "You must have been worried."

"She used to talk all the time about needing to go on a diet," Whitford said. "I didn't know – you know, girls take these things too far. But all the advice is that you shouldn't make too much of it, and she seems to be alright."

"Mmm," Eames said. "Dr Whitford, is your daughter home?"

"Ye – why?" Whitford asked, instantly suspicious again.

"We're going to need to talk to her, Dr Whitford," Eames said.

"Why?" Whitford asked.

"A witness identified her as the driver of your car when it was involved in the accident earlier tonight," Eames said. She was aware that Goren's attention flickered to her for just a second as she put Gina Lowe's words in such definite form. She knew it wasn't alarm – only pleased surprise.

"That's not possible. She's been here all night!" Whitford said.

"Dr Whitford, we need to speak to her," Eames said.

"I've had enough of this persecution!" Whitford snapped. "I'm calling my lawyer!"

As he went to the phone Eames went back into the hall. "Emma?" she called up the stairs. "Emma!"

Footsteps on the floor above, then a slim young woman with brown hair appeared at the head of the stairs. For a moment Eames was disconcerted – this wasn't the girl from the photos _or_ the girl from Peter Fraser's flat. Then Emma took a step down the stairs and Eames saw that her hair was darker than the pictures because it was damp, saw her face and knew it.

"Emma Whitford," she said. "You need to come with us to the station."

Emma stopped still and looked down at her, expressionless.

"Emma, don't – " Whitford said behind Eames.

"I want a lawyer," Emma Whitford said.

* * *

.oOo.


	43. Privileged Communication

_Major Case Squad Room_

_One Police Plaza_

_8.30 am Tuesday January 8th 200_ _7_

* * *

Eames looked at the cup of coffee steaming in front of her. The caffeine molecules tantalizing her nose urged her to pick it up and drain it in one gulp, but her stomach, still trying to deal with the seven cups of coffee she'd had since midnight, twisted at the thought.

"Do you think Rodgers would rig up a caffeine drip for me?" she asked Goren.

Goren laughed, yawned mid-laugh, and rubbed his eyes. "Go home," he suggested. "Sleep the sleep of the victorious."

"How are we victorious?" Eames asked. "We got nothing from her. _Nothing_."

"We got her locked up nice and tight," Goren said. "Not running around with deadly weapons like guns and SUVs. Mr McCoy and Ms Southerlyn can sleep soundly. Gina's ID is a _lock_. The forensics on the car are a _lock_. There's no way Miss Whitford will get bail when she's arraigned today, what with an eyewitness and forensics on trying to run down Manhattan's top prosecutor. Be happy." He picked up one of the files on his desk and began flipping through it.

"We have her on that, sure, but we got nothing on Mike, nothing on the courthouse shooting. Where's her gun? She won't say a word." Eames gave in to the siren call of the coffee and winced as she burned her tongue.

"Maybe she doesn't need to," Goren said.

Eames narrowed her eyes at him. "What do you mean?"

He reached for his coat. "Feel like getting some fresh air?"

_Fresh air_ , Eames thought sourly twenty minutes later as they sat in traffic. First of all, Goren had insisted on a detour to the evidence locker, leaving her waiting in the corridor before coming back out with apparently nothing to show for the trip. Eames had looked at his oh-so-innocent expression and decided that hell would freeze over before she asked him what he'd been doing. Then the 'fresh air' Goren had referred to turned out to be the pine-scented air-fresher in the pool car.

_Fine_ , Eames thought, shooting a side-long glance at Goren, sitting behind the wheel radiating enough innocence for a whole choir of altar boys. _Two can play at_ _ **that**_ _game._ She folded her arms and closed her eyes, pretending to sleep.

She pretended a little too well and the next thing she knew the car was stopped.

"Here we are," Goren said.

Eames looked out the window and saw that they were stopped outside a storefront with 'Hole in One' in flickering neon in the window. "Here we are where?" she asked.

"Here we are at the gunshop where Donald Whitford bought his daughter a sniper rifle last year," Goren said. "Come on."

"If this is another one of your fucking hunches, Bobby," Eames said, ragged with lack of sleep.

"Not a hunch, Eames," Goren said, grinning at her with such evident self-satisfaction that she couldn't help smiling back. "A _plan._ "

"You going to let me in on the plan?" she asked.

"It's a _surprise_ , Eames."

She sighed, and gave in. "Lead on, big guy."

The owner of the gun store wasn't exactly thrilled to see them. Eames propped herself against the counter and listened to him complain about cops and Stalinist Russia until he ran out of steam.

"How would you like to be a friend of the NYPD?" Goren asked, when he could get a word in edgewise. "How would you like to do us one tiny favor that would make us very grateful?"

"What kind of favor?" the owner asked suspiciously.

"Oh, just lend us a gun for a couple of hours. We'll give you a receipt and everything," Goren said earnestly.

"Don't you guys _get_ guns?" the owner asked, his incredulous tone raising a tired chuckle from Eames.

"Sure," Goren said. "But this is a very particular gun, you see. A Sig-Saur 2000 with a Schmidt & Bender sight. And some Winchester Magnum ammunition."

The store owner stopped and looked at Goren consideringly. "I had some cops in the other day asking about that gun."

"I know," Goren said with a disarming smile. _Or what he thinks is a disarming smile_ , Eames thought. Goren's disarming smiles often made people edge away from him. "That's what we need. Exactly that gun. Exactly the gun you sold to Donald Whitford for his daughter on December 7th last year."

"Is this legal?" the owner asked. "Are you going to do something, I dunno, something funny with it?"

Goren opened his mouth to reassure him but Eames got in first. _To hell with this dance_ , she thought. _I have not had enough sleep to put up with this dance._ "Listen to me very carefully," she said, and then, sensing that she didn't have the store owner's complete and undivided attention she reached over the counter and grabbed him by the jacket. "You sold a gun to an underage girl using someone else's gun license and the gun was used to shoot a cop. You have two choices here. You can co-operate, or you can get used to the idea of your future being very very different to the one you imagined. Are we all on the same page here?"

They were on the same page. Goran filled out official receipts while the store owner hurried around, piling up exactly the items he'd sold to the Whitfords. Eames leaned on the counter and longed for more coffee.

"Oh, one more thing – " Goren asked. "Did they carry this stuff out like this? Did they have a bag or something?"

"I _gave_ them a bag," the store owner said. "One of these." He took a blue gym bag with 'Hole in One' emblazoned on the side, and shrugged. "Advertising, you know?"

Back in the car, Eames waited while Goren pulled out a handful of blank evidence tags from his pocket and started filling them in. He attached one to the handle of the gym bag, one to each piece of the disassembled gun, one to the box of ammunition. After a moment's thought, he took a handful of bullets out of the box and dumped them in the glove-box.

"Okay," Eames said. "Where to now?"

Goren grinned at her. "The hospital."

"I'm guessing we're not visiting Mike," Eames said.

"We can do that too," Goren said. "But I'd like to take him a get-well gift."

When they walked into Peter Fraser's room his gaze went straight to the blue gym bag with the evidence tags and stayed there.

"Hey, Peter," Goren said. "I'd say 'good morning' but it isn't. For you. It's an excellent morning for the NYPD, though, so maybe 'good morning' is appropriate. What do you think, Eames?"

"Good morning," Eames said, deadpan.

Goren laughed. With an extravagant gesture he pulled the tray-table closer to the bed and dumped the gym bag on top of it. "Look what we found, Peter," he said. " _Look_ what we _found._ " He unzipped the bag and started pulling out pieces of the gun, each one with its own evidence tag. As he set each one down on the tray-table the metallic clank was very loud in the hospital room. Peter Fraser stared. "That's right, Peter," Goren said quietly. "We found her. And she sold you out. The DA will let her plead to conspiracy in exchange for her complete co-operation. No such deal for you, I'm afraid. Attempted murder of a police officer. And some other stuff. Be a long time before _you_ go hunting again."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Fraser said. "Murder one? I never shot anybody. I never shot anybody!"

"Oh, but Emma says you did, Peter," Goren said. "Shot that cop. With this gun. She lied to give you an alibi. She's very convincing. The jury – they're going to _love_ her. Poor little motherless girl led astray by big bad you." He picked up the box of ammunition and rattled it. "Oh, yeah. They'll _lap_ it up."

"That fucking bitch," Fraser said. "That _fucking bitch!_ "

_There you go_ , Eames thought.

He told them everything.

* * *

.oOo.


	44. The Good, The Gentle, And The Brave

_Office of EADA Jack McCoy_

_One Hogan Place_

_6 pm Tuesday 8 January 2007_

* * *

"So let me get this straight," Tracey Kibre said. She looked around the crowded office from one detective to another. "Emma's father bought the gun for her. She shot Mike Logan because _Peter Fraser_ wanted him not to testify at his mother's new trial. Fraser alibied her for that. Then _he_ was supposed to shoot Jack McCoy with a handgun – do we have the gun?"

"In the Hudson," Briscoe said, and shrugged.

"Okay. No gun. He bought the gun?" Kibre asked.

"Hot off the street, he says," Eames said. She'd ended up sitting on the couch beside Kibre, some kind of unspoken chivalry among the men prompting them to leave the couch empty even though Briscoe and Goren were both standing. Regan had taken the chair by McCoy's desk and Wheeler was leaning against the wall by the door. Regan could see the badge and gun on Wheeler's belt and guessed the Board had cleared her on the Fraser shooting.

"We need verification," Kibre said. "Get him to give you the details of the sale, see if you can get a line on the dealer."

"Already on it," Eames said.

"Good. Okay. So _Fraser_ was supposed to shoot McCoy because McCoy was prosecuting _Emma Whitford's_ father, but when her father's case was sent to Carver, Fraser baulked – because he had a motive for Carver."

"Emma was always going to kill Carver," Goren said. He took a step forward, gesturing as he spoke, and Regan ducked down a little in her chair to be clear of his waving arms. "That was the deal. _She_ kills the key people in his mother's trial, while _he_ picks off the ones in _her_ father's. But when she found out that Carver was going to be in chambers, maybe damaging her father's case beyond repair, she panicked. She took Fraser's handgun, because these days you can't set up a sniper's nest near a public building without attracting some immediate unwelcome attention."

"She was supposed to wait until Fraser could alibi her," Eames added. "But she didn't. Then she freaked out and threw the gun in the river. And she told him she wasn't going to do any more of his dirty work, that he was letting down his end of the deal."

"Which left him with a grudge but without a weapon he could use," Goren said. "He's no sniper. That's why he had a knife at Ms Southerlyn's house that night."

"Lucky for her," Wheeler said.

"Then the case came back to me," McCoy said. He started to lean forward to put his elbows on his desk, forgetting that his leg was propped on a stack of law books, then winced and stayed where he was. "And I was in her gun-sights again."

"Lucky for you, Peter Fraser was the one who hid the Sig-saur and she was too afraid to come to the hospital and ask him where," Eames said. "She had to fall back on vehicular homicide."

"How did you persuade him that she knew where it was, that she turned it over to us?" McCoy asked.

Goren shrugged and smiled. "He persuaded himself. I didn't say anything and he assumed she'd worked it out. It was in his father's storage locker over on the Island. They have different names, and he isn't on Peter's birth certificate, so nobody even knew who or what to look for. Now it's in forensics, and from there it goes to ballistics."

Kibre massaged her temples with her forefingers. "They're co-conspirators. We're going to have to try them together unless defense moves to sever. How do we explain to the jury that we're charging _him_ with a lower offence, and his testimony is the main evidence against _her_."

"If every case was easy, Tracey, they wouldn't pay us these fabulous salaries," McCoy said.

Kibre dropped her hands and glared at him. "I seem to recall you having a case something like this a few years ago. It didn't go so well, if I remember rightly."

"They both went to jail," McCoy said.

"You flipped one and offered the other a plea," Kibre said. "Not your most shining hour."

"I did what I had to do to get the convictions," McCoy said.

"Well, I can't see Arthur authorizing me to offer a plea bargain to Emma Whitford. She shot a cop and killed an employee of the District Attorney's Office, not to mention taking her best shot at Manhattan's star prosecutor."

"No," McCoy said. "No pleas. Unless it's to the maximum." He shrugged. "She bought the gun. The bullets will match the ones that hit Logan. And I'm betting that, however careful she might have been to wear gloves when she did the shooting, she left a fingerprint somewhere when she was assembling the rifle. You might have to lead the jury by the hand, but they'll follow you in the end."

"What about Dr Whitford?" Regan asked. She coughed and had to clear her throat before she could go on. "Was he in on it? He bought that gun. He must have known she couldn't possibly have her own license at her age. He must have known she was using her aunt's."

"He wasn't as careful as he should have been," McCoy said, "but it's a big step from there to knowingly help his daughter commit murder."

"Even to stay out of jail?" Briscoe asked.

"The idea that killing a prosecutor would end the prosecution is a child's understanding. Whitford might be a cold-blooded son-of-a-bitch who killed his wife for her money but I don't think he's completely lacking in understanding of the way the legal system works." McCoy leaned back in his chair. He reached for his bottom drawer and then glanced at Briscoe and put his hands back on the desk.

"Is that what you think, Jack?" Kibre asked. "Or what you need to be true to prevent the _Donald_ Whitford prosecution being assigned elsewhere like the _Emma_ Whitford prosecution?"

"I'm going to forget you said that," McCoy snapped.

"I just don't want any decisions about this trial being made on the basis of ego," Kibre said coolly, not intimidated.

"Any decisions I make about _any_ trial are based on maximizing our chances of securing a conviction!"

"Good," Kibre said. "Because, Jack? What Donald Whitford did to his wife is horrifying – but crazed teenage girls running around the city shooting police officers and officers of the court? That's a whole new level of media frenzy. Convicting Emma Whitford _has_ to be the priority."

"No argument," McCoy said. He reached behind his chair and picked up one of his crutches, hoisting it to illustrate his point. "I'm taking this personally too."

"So I can count on complete co-operation," Kibre said. "From you, and from Ms Markham."

Every eye turned to Regan and she did her best to look completely co-operative. She cleared her throat. "I didn't see much," she said carefully.

"I'm talking about keeping out from under my feet," Kibre said. "And out from under the feet of my investigators. You're second chairing on _Donald_ Whitford, aren't you?"

"She is," McCoy said. "Regan knows that case better than anyone in the office."

"Good," Kibre said. "I know who to call when I need to know something about the Whitford family. Alright, everybody, thanks for coming. Let's try to tie up every single loose end on this one."

"Ducks in a row," Briscoe said.

"Dotted 't's," Eames added.

Kibre gave first Briscoe, then Eames, a stone-eyed stare. Regan was glad not to be on the receiving end and made a mental note never, ever to cross Tracey Kibre in any way.

The cops headed out together, Kibre bundling together her files and following them, leaving Regan with McCoy.

He took a couple of glasses from his bottom drawer. "Drink?"

She shook her head. "Not tonight. I have to – I have an appointment."

McCoy paused in the act of reaching for the bottle of whiskey. "With Skoda?"

She shifted a little in her seat. "Yeah," she admitted. _Like every night_.

"Is it helping?" McCoy asked.

"It is," Regan said, glad to be able to tell him the truth. "It's – not what I expected." That was true, too. She'd expected Skoda to try and make her talk about Seattle, about the courthouse shooting, about Walters and Carthage. Maybe about her childhood, her marriage. _But he doesn't seem interested in any of that_. He talked to her about the way the human body learnt to react to certain events and stimuli, about how to recognize those reactions, how to damp them down. To her surprise, the things he told her to do worked. _Or maybe it's the pills he's got me on_. Whatever it was, she was finding she could get through the days – and more importantly, the nights – more easily than in weeks.

She looked at McCoy, pouring himself a drink, and wondered how to say any of that. In the end she gave up trying to find the words and just shrugged a little. "Not what I expected," she said again.

"Go with what works," McCoy said, matching her shrug. "I want to go over the Whitford financials again. Can you do that with me when you get done?"

"Sure," Regan said. "I can be back here by, I dunno, half-seven, eight?"

"Or we could get something to eat and work through it over dinner," McCoy said. "I'm getting sick of take-away." He gave her a slow, crooked smile and Regan felt herself blush.

"You know, I think I'm coming down with something," she said. It wasn't a lie. "Why don't we just run through it here?"

"If you're getting sick, maybe you should call it a night," McCoy said. "Whitford can wait for the morning."

"Okay," Regan said, not sure if she was relieved or disappointed. "See you in the morning."

"Yeah," McCoy said, and drained his glass. "See you then."

Regan left him there with his files and his law books and his whiskey. She glanced back once before she closed the door, but McCoy was staring into space, isolated in the pool of light cast by his desk lamp, and didn't notice.

 _I should have said yes_ , she thought, then, _no. Right decision. Remember Mr Branch._

She grabbed her coat – well, it was the coat she was using, the red one that McCoy had given her – and her bag and headed for the lift.

As she crossed the foyer toward the front doors Detective Goren stepped out of the shadows and frightened the life out of her.

She went through _gunfire – screaming – blood – help me, Ellie, please_ – in about two and a half seconds and then stepped on it hard with _white line, black road, hissing tires_ , managed to take a breath and say: "Need something, Detective?"

"No," Goren said. "I'm sorry, I didn't – mean to startle you."

"Yes you did," Regan said, staring him down. "Do I pass the test?"

He had the grace to look down. "Ms Markham," he said. It might have been an apology. Regan chose to take it that way.

"Don't worry about it," she said, and turned to walk away, then turned back. "What the hell did you mean, anyway? The world breaks everybody?"

"The world breaks everyone," Goren said quietly. "And afterward many are strong in the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially."

"So you were doing me a favor?" Regan asked angrily.

"It's just a quote from a book," Goren said.

"Yeah, nothing's ever _just_ anything with someone like you, detective," Regan said.

Goren laughed, a little 'you got me' laugh. "Sometimes breaking isn't the worst option," he said. He paused, looking down at his feet, and Regan was about to turn away when he looked up again. "I can't help wondering about – "

"Bobby," Alex Eames said warningly.

"- about the other gun," Goren finished in a rush.

" _Bobby_ ," Eames said, voice hard.

Regan barely heard her. She tried for a second to convince herself that Goren meant the handgun Emma Linton had used to shoot Chuck Johnson, but looking up into his intent gaze she knew that wasn't what he meant at all. Her pulse hummed in her ears. _Ellie, Ellie, help me, help me …_

"What about it?" she asked flatly. _Man draws down on you …_

"I can't help wondering why Frank Tourmetti – that was his name, wasn't it, the janitor?"

"That was his name," Regan agreed.

"I can't help wondering why he didn't go for it earlier," Goren said. "Why he _waited_. Waited until you were on top of him. That's not – that's not very _smart_ , is it? To wait until he had absolutely no chance?"

_Man draws down on you …_

"I guess he couldn't tell I couldn't hit him from across the room," Regan said. She was proud of the way her voice came out even and conversational. "If he'd gone for his second weapon right away, it would have been like shooting fish in a barrel. But he had no way to know that."

"Okay," Goren said, nodding. "Okay, that makes sense."

"Glad you think so," Regan said. She turned to walk away but his voice stopped her.

"But why go for it at all?"

_Man draws down on you …_

"How should I know?" Regan asked, her back still to the two detectives. "I hardly know what I was thinking." _Lie_. "How should I know – " _Man draws down on you …_ Bile rose suddenly in her throat and she choked, swallowed hard before she could go on. "How can I know what he was thinking?" _Man draws down on you, put him in the ground._ "Maybe he panicked."

_Man draws down on you ..._

_**Put him in the ground**._

_Then or later._

"Did you ever _wonder_?" Goren asked.

" _Enough_ , Bobby," Eames said sharply.

Regan turned to face them. "I had other things on my mind," she said tightly, staring Goren right in the eye. _Put him in the ground. **Then or later.**_

Goren held her gaze for a moment, and then looked away, rubbing his forehead with two fingers.

Regan turned on her heel and left.

Goren's partner came after her, her sensible shoes making hardly any noise on the marble floor compared to Regan's pumps. "Ms Markham," Eames said, and Regan stopped again and turned. Eames caught up with her, Goren hanging back.

"My partner – he needs to know how people tick," Eames said. "Sometimes a little too much."

"Is that your job?" Regan asked. "To follow him around and apologize for him, after?"

Eames smiled, but her eyes and her voice held a warning. "He's my partner," she said. "So, yeah, sometimes that's my job. And sometimes it's his job, to apologize for me."

Regan sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Okay," she said. "I've obviously ended up on the wrong side of Major Case somehow in all this. I'm just trying to do my job here, Detective Eames. I don't want to get into anything with you or your partner. And right now, I'm late. So why don't you tell your partner that I accept your apology on his behalf and we'll just move on with our lives, okay?"

Without waiting to hear Eames's response she turned and strode for the door.

* * *

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The case Kibre refers to is L&O episode "C.O.D."


	45. Keep It To Yourself

_10_ _th_ _Floor_

_One Hogan Place_

_6 pm Friday, January 12 2007_

* * *

Passing Regan's office, limping a little still but off the crutches, McCoy paused and then backtracked to lean in through her door.

"Any news from Kibre?" he asked

Regan looked up, began to speak and then sneezed. "Sorry," she said, reaching for the box of Kleenex. "No." She sneezed again.

"Are you taking something for that?" McCoy asked, and Regan rattled a bottle of Sudafed at him.

"It's jub a colb," she said blearily.

"Well, keep it to yourself," McCoy said.

Regan laughed, and then sneezed again.

At half past nine, the lights in the rest of the office out, McCoy pulled on his coat and headed for the door. It was too snowy for the motorcycle and he hoped he'd be lucky enough to get a cab quickly.

One light still on caught his attention as he headed for the lift and he stopped at Regan Markham's office door. She had papers spread out in front of her, head propped in her hands, but he doubted she was making much sense of them.

"Still here?" he asked, and she jumped.

"Jub wanbo fibinsh this ub," she said, which he interpreted as "Just want to finish this up."

"It's half past nine on a Friday and you're sick as a dog. Go home." He paused. "Come on. I'll walk you out."

Regan hesitated, and then gave in and reached for her coat. In the elevator she responded in monosyllables to his questions about her cases. As they crossed the foyer she slowed, stopped.

McCoy turned back from the front doors. "Regan?" he prompted.

"Yeah," she mumbled.

"You okay to get home?"

She looked at him, confused by the question, and he went over to her.

"Are you okay to get a cab?" he asked again, pulling off one glove and pressing the back of his fingers to her forehead. "That's quite a fever you're running."

"I don't feel well," she confessed a little dazedly.

"I'm not surprised. C'mon." He took her briefcase from her. "I'll drop you."

It only took a few minutes to flag a cab. McCoy bundled Regan in and got in the other side.

"Where do you live?" he asked.

"Broadway," Regan said. "Broadway at West 29th."

Traffic was heavy, but the cab was warm, and McCoy didn't really have any reason to be in a hurry. He watched the snow falling out of the window. After a while he turned to speak to Regan and realized she had fallen asleep.

When they reached her address he asked the cabbie to wait, insisted on walking Regan in. She made a token protest.

McCoy was surprised – and a little alarmed – that there was no intercom or doorman. The only security was a glass entry door that had possibly locked at some time in the past but certainly didn't now. McCoy looked at the graffiti on the walls and the rubbish in the corners of the foyer. He was unsurprised to discover the lift had a faint smell of urine.

When they reached her floor Regan led him down a long corridor, where the soundproofing was so poor McCoy could tell which TV programs were being watched in the apartments they passed. At her own door, she fumbled with her keys and McCoy took them from her and opened the gimcrack lock in a door barely heavier than cardboard.

He looked around, taking in the sink and cook plate that comprised the 'kitchen', the tiny television. It was frigid, almost colder inside than out. McCoy went to the radiator and turned it up.

"Ids broken," Regan said. She sat down on the bed abruptly. "I'b beed trying to ged the super to figs it."

"How long?"

"Three weegs." Regan said.

"No wonder you're sick!" McCoy looked around again. "No bathroom?"

"Down the hall," Regan told him.

"No chain or bolt on the door, either. No building security – and that door is hardly more than pasteboard." McCoy was getting angrier.

"Blease dobe yell at me, Jack," Regan said miserably. "My heab hurts."

McCoy looked around again, and then made up his mind. He went to the wardrobe and pulled out a gym bag and began packing clothes into it.

"Whab are you doinb?"

"Packing you a bag. You can't stay here."

"I'b stayed here for a year already," Regan pointed out.

"It's freezing cold in here, you're running a temperature." McCoy said.

"Ibs okay when I'm in bed."

"Bullshit," McCoy said. He found a bag of toiletries and added that to the gym bag. Jockey For Her underwear, two Wal-Mart own-brand shirts and a pair of jeans to match, a woollen sweater, socks. "Come on."

Regan didn't move. "Where?"

"I have a spare room."

"No, Jack. I can't – "

"What you can't do is stay here," McCoy said, and when she protested: "I don't care, Regan! It's too cold in here to take off your _coat_. Come on!" He put his hand beneath her elbow and helped her up, then steered her out of the apartment.

"Where – where are we going?" Regan asked in the elevator.

"My place. I have a spare room – and the heating works."

"Ib's a bad idea," Regan said. "Arthur – "

"You know what?" McCoy said, taking her elbow and propelling her across the foyer towards the waiting cab. "Your virtue is safe with me, particularly as you are a revolting Petrie dish of germs at the moment." She hung back, and he opened the cab door for her. "We won't tell Arthur," he said.

He felt her give in. She let him put her into the cab, and leaned back and closed her eyes as they pulled out into the traffic.

McCoy used his cell-phone to call Dr Margolis as they pulled up outside his building. The doctor said he'd be about a half-hour. McCoy steered Regan inside and to the spare room.

She stopped in the doorway and McCoy looked over her shoulder at the books and papers spread over the spare bed.

"Hang on," he said, and started stacking them up and clearing them off. Regan tossed her coat in the corner and started helping him.

"Light reading?" she said, looking at the spine of one of the books. "Gerber's _Internabional Law._ What, you do'b hab a TV?"

"I find Starsky and Hutch too intellectually demanding," McCoy said.

"Yeah, sure. _The Debelopment of Double Jeopardy in Cobbon Law Systems_ ," Regan read. " _Ledislation at the Speeb ob Light – Law in the Twendy First Century._ You neeb to get out more."

"I've been trying," McCoy said, piling the last of the books in the corner. "Dr Margolis will be here soonish."

"I dob need a –"

"You can give up on arguing with me right around now," McCoy said, letting annoyance show in his voice.

Regan looked blearily at him and then sat down on the bed all of a sudden. "Okay," she said tiredly. She kicked off her shoes and lay down, closing her eyes.

McCoy left her to rest until the buzzer announced Dr Margolis's arrival.

Margolis acted as if making a house-call in the middle of a snowstorm was nothing out of the ordinary, waving off McCoy's thanks. "For the DA's Office, always," he said. "This girl of yours, she's in the bedroom?"

"Spare room," McCoy said, and met Margolis's surprised look with a level stare.

"Okay," Margolis said, and shrugged.

He went into the spare room and shut the door behind him. McCoy started heating up left-overs from the fridge, one ear cocked to hear when the doctor came out. His dinner was ready before he heard the door open again.

"Remember what I said," Margolis told Regan. "If it goes to your chest _at all_."

She murmured acquiescence, and McCoy heard Margolis coming down the hall.

"It's a cold," Margolis told McCoy. "Keep her warm, plenty of fluids, rest. But if she starts coughing, don't mess around. Call me straight away."

"If it's a cold, then why – " McCoy said. "Do you think it's something worse?"

"No, but with - " Margolis stopped abruptly, looking at McCoy shrewdly. "No. Is the short answer. So long as it stays out of her chest."

McCoy nodded. "Okay. Thanks again, doctor. The health plan – "

"I know the DA's Office health plan, Mr McCoy, by now better than you do," Margolis said. "Call me again if you need to. You know I'll always answer."

McCoy nodded. "I know," he said.

When he'd let Margolis out he went to check on Regan.

She was in bed, curled up, but she opened her eyes when he pushed the door open.

"Do you want anything to eat?" he asked.

"No," she said.

"Okay," McCoy said. "I'll be up for a while. Call out if you need anything."

Regan nodded. McCoy turned to go. "Jack – " Regan said, and he stopped. "Thanks."

"You'd do the same," McCoy said.

"Yeah," Regan said. "Dr Margolis – he's lige the office doctor, right? Eberyone says, if you're sick, call Margolis. And he mages house calls?"

"Yeah," McCoy said. "Most of his practice is prosecutors."

"How come?" Regan asked sleepily.

McCoy leaned against the doorframe. "Once upon a time Dr Margolis had a wife and a baby and a free clinic in one of the worst parts of town. About twenty years ago one of his patients followed him home from work. This guy thought that a doctor would have drugs at home."

"Oh, no, Jack," Regan said softly, horror in her voice. "Both of them?"

"Yeah," McCoy said. "The cops caught the guy, and we prosecuted him, and we sent him away. Ben Stone handled the case. When his physical injuries healed, Dr Margolis didn't fancy going back to the free clinic. He made an appointment to see Adam Schiff and he told him that he wanted to do something for the people who got justice for his family. He'd come to the office, make house calls, go to the courtroom, whatever. He's been doing it ever since. We depend on him now – there's more than one ADA who's had their pants down in a courthouse conference room so Dr Margolis can give them a shot that will let them get through a day of cross-examination despite the stomach flu."

"Ingluding you?" Regan asked with a hint of a smile.

"Including me," McCoy admitted. "Not the most dignified moment of my legal career."

She chuckled, then coughed.

"Regan," McCoy said. "You said the heat's been out at your apartment for three weeks?"

"Yeah," Regan said. "The suber isn't whad you'd call _proagtive_."

"The place is a dump," McCoy said bluntly. "Why do you live there?"

"Fits my budget," Regan said.

"I know we don't pay ADAs sky-high salaries, but surely things aren't that bad," McCoy said.

"I hab ober thigs to spend my money on beside rent," Regan said.

"What?" McCoy said. "I know it isn't designer labels!"

Regan snorted. "Not clobes, no."

"Then?" he pressed.

"Thigs," Regan said. " _Bersonal_ thigs."

"What personal things can possibly take enough of your budget to leave you living in a dump like that?"

"None of your budiness," Regan said shortly.

"It is my business if it's something that defense counsel will dig up and throw at us in the middle of a trial. I don't like surprises, and I _hate_ being blindsided. Is it gambling? Drugs?"

"No. Nothig that would gause you a problem in a trial."

"Are you so sure of that?"

"Preddy damn sure," Regan said shortly.

"Trying to pay off your college debt in record time?"

"No."

"Then what?" When Regan said nothing McCoy took a step toward her. " _What_ , Regan?"

"The Bolice Benevolent Fund in Seaddle, okay?" Regan snapped. "Is dat _alright_ wid you, Jack? Will dat be a _problem_ in a trial?"

"No," McCoy said. "No, it won't be." He wondered how much of her income she gave to the charity for the widows and children of police officers killed in the line of duty. He wondered how many of her colleagues who'd died that day in Seattle PD had left families depending on the Benevolent Fund.

"This neeb of yours to hab ebery guestion answered," Regan said crossly, "It's really fugging annoying."

"So I've been told," McCoy said dryly. "It seems to be an unshakable compulsion, though." That won a reluctant smile from her. "Get some sleep. I'm down the hall if you need anything."

"Ogay," Regan said, and closed her eyes.

McCoy switched off the light. Hand on the doorknob to close the door behind him, he hesitated.

"Do you want me to close this?" he asked softly.

Her voice came out of the darkness, soft and low. "No. Leave it a little bit open. Please."

* * *

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nothing about the actual apartment building at the address where Regan lives. I was simply looking for a bed-sit type place in the right kind of price range. It may be a very classy establishment.


	46. Favors

Regan slept through most of Saturday. McCoy heard her moving around in the bathroom at one point and she made a brief, bleary-eyed appearance in the kitchen for toast and juice before going back to bed, but on the whole he wouldn't have known she was there if he hadn't been able to hear her breathing when he stood outside the door to the spare room.

The wind blew snow against the windows in ferocious gusts and made the decision to stay indoors an easy one. McCoy worked steadily through the Whitford files, making notes for his opening argument, cross-referencing the inconsistencies in the stories Dr Whitford and his two children had told about what had happened on the night Eileen Whitford had died. As always, work completely absorbed his attention. It wasn't until he turned over the last piece of paper in the file that he realized it was almost dark outside.

On impulse, he went into the kitchen and flicked off the light. The late afternoon gloom filled the room. Through the window he could see swirling snow lit by the streetlights below, briefly and startlingly white against the surrounding grey. When he put his fingers to the glass the cold made him shiver.

McCoy could only imagine how cold Regan's apartment – _apartment! It's a room, that's all._ – would be tonight. He considered the possibility that a call from the DA's Office might encourage her super to more immediate action, then wondered if just hiring a repairman might be quicker.

 _Neither option solves the problem of the gimcrack locks and the paper-board door_ , he thought. _Or the lack of security in the building._

 _No_. Regan could not go back there. That was unacceptable. But she had been right – she couldn't stay in McCoy's apartment for more than a few days, either. That was inviting disaster in the form of Arthur Branch. And McCoy didn't think he could persuade her to rethink her budget to upgrade her accommodation – not over the course of the weekend, anyway.

McCoy pressed his hand against the window, watching the snow erase every trace of human habitation, blanketing cars, covering the road and the sidewalk, deadening the constant sound of traffic. When the snow stopped, for a little while the city would be pristine and fresh – as it had been on the morning of New Year's Day, when he'd looked at it from Abbie's window.

 _Abbie …_ McCoy hoped she had had no need to go out in this weather. He reached for the phone, finding it by touch in the almost-dark, and dialed her number. _If she needs something, better it's me out in the storm._

 _I wish she had someone else there,_ he thought for about the hundredth time since Abbie had told him she was pregnant. _I wish Tom was back from Iraq. I –_

Inspiration struck him at exactly the same moment Abbie answered her phone.

"Hello, Jack," she said. "Calling to make sure I'm not shoveling snow off the stoop?"

"I'm calling to ask a favor," McCoy said, feeling smug but trying to keep it out of his voice.

"You know you only have to ask," Abbie said matter-of-factly. "Although I may take it out in trade. How are you at stoop-shoveling?"

"I excel at stoop-shoveling," McCoy said. "But my favor has conditions. I need you to not ask questions."

"I can do that," Abbie said. "Possibly. Depending on what the favor is. If you need ten thousand dollars and a fake passport I'm probably going to need to know why."

"Regan Markham needs somewhere to live," McCoy said. "For various reasons she can't stay where she is. And she can't stay with me. But I remembered, you have that spare room."

"One half of it is lemon yellow with bunnikins trim," Abbie warned.

"Only one half?"

"Tom had to ship before he finished. The other half is warm cream. It's kind of worse than it sounds, especially if you turn your head too fast."

"Is that the only problem with the idea?" McCoy teased. "The bunnikins trim?"

"Of course she can stay as long as she needs to, Jack," Abbie said. "I'd be glad of the company. When will she be here?"

"She's under the weather. I'll bring her round when she's feeling better. Maybe Monday."

"I'll have the shovel ready," Abbie said, a laugh in her voice. McCoy couldn't help smiling to hear it.

"You sound good, Abbie," he said, unexpectedly finding a lump in his throat.

"Jack," she said softly. "You're standing in your kitchen in the dark, aren't you?"

"Am I so predictable?" he asked.

"You forget how well I know you," she said. "You forget _how long_ I've known you. Turn on the light and fix yourself dinner. Something _other_ than scotch."

"Yes, ma'am," McCoy said.

"See you Monday," she said.

When she'd hung up, McCoy stood a moment longer with the phone in his hand, looking out at the night, and then followed Abbie's orders.

The weather had cleared a little the next day and McCoy left Regan sleeping and went to the store, leaving the keys from the top of the fridge on the kitchen table in case she wanted to go out. When he got home with groceries Regan was sitting at the kitchen table in jeans and a sweater, hair still damp from the shower. She was reading the notes he'd made yesterday on Whitford's alibi but she put them down when he came in.

"Feeling better?" McCoy asked, putting the bags on the kitchen counter.

"Yeah," Regan said. "On the mend." She got up but McCoy shook his head at her.

"I got it," he said, starting to unpack the food. "You hungry?"

"Starved," Regan admitted.

He took a Rueben from one of the bags and gave it to her. "That should fill some of the corners. You're looking at the alibi?"

"Does it strike you as odd that _both_ the children are lying for the man who killed their mother?" she said, biting into her sandwich.

"I've seen it before. I've seen children lie to protect one parent who killed the other. But I tell you what, the child who _kills_ to protect the man who killed her mother, that's a new one for me, and I thought I'd seen it all."

"It makes you look at what she says about that night in a whole new light," Regan said a little indistinctly around her sandwich.

McCoy finished putting away the groceries and picked up his own sandwich, pulling out the chair opposite Regan. "Now you know she's not a naïve teenage girl in denial?"

"But instead, a total fruitloop," Regan nodded. She finished her sandwich and licked her fingers. "So I guess her _brother_ is the naïve denialist."

"Great family," McCoy said. "I hope social services can find someone good to place Tommy with – once we've jailed his father for murdering his mother and locked up his sister for trying to stop us jailing his father for murdering his mother." Regan looked stricken and McCoy put his hand over hers. "Their doing, not ours," he said. "Donald and Emma Whitford made their choices."

"Yeah," Regan said, but she looked only marginally convinced.

"No more Whitford today," McCoy said firmly. "The mixed motives of Donald Whitford's confused children can wait for Monday morning."

Regan nodded, clearly relieved.

McCoy spent the afternoon working through the files for some of the _other_ cases on his calendar at the moment. Regan offered to help, but he told her to take the chance to rest. She wandered over to his bookshelves and browsed through them while he checked recommendations and wrote notes on precedents for ADAs to follow up. He'd expected to have to work to ignore her, unfamiliar with another person in his home, especially while he was working, but was surprised to discover the opposite was true. Not that he forgot she was there – just that the lean form curled up in an armchair with a stack of old law journals didn't bother him at all.

Unexpectedly, he heard her snort with laughter, and looked up. "Not many people find the New York University Law Review a source of comic amusement," he said.

"'Patriarchy and the Penal Code'?" Regan said, grinning. "By John J McCoy? What, you were getting in touch with your feminine side at law school?"

He grinned back. "Getting in touch with the feminine sides of my feminist fellow students," he said.

"You pretended to be a feminist to score chicks?" Regan said. She began to chuckle. "Do you know how _wrong_ that is?"

"I know that it worked," McCoy said smugly.

"So you were hanging out with the left-wing crowd, were you?" Regan said. "You weren't – Jack, you were a hippy, weren't you!"

"No!" McCoy protested.

"Oh, you liar!" Regan said, grinning. "I bet you had the long hair and the flower-power headband, didn't you?"

" _Absolutely_ not," McCoy said. He set his papers aside and went over to the bookshelf. "Here we are," he said, finding the photo album and flipping through it. "I never hung on to photographs but after my mother died my sisters sent me a bunch – and now I'm glad, because here's the proof. Me in law school." He turned the album around and gave it to her.

Regan looked at the photo he'd pointed out and the hint of something _else_ crept into her mocking smile. "You certainly weren't a hippy," she said softly.

McCoy moved around her chair to look over her shoulder, at the picture of him leaning against his motorcycle, complete with black leather jacket and cigarette, looking younger than he could ever remember having been. "No," he said.

"And you had to write articles about patriarchy to get girls?" Regan said. "Somehow I find that hard to believe."

"The girls I wanted to get," McCoy said, smiling at the memories. "The smart, argumentative ones. The ones who saw straight through the 'Easy Rider' pose."

"They clearly bred female law students tougher back in the day," Regan said. "If you'd shown up on _my_ campus looking like that you wouldn't have needed to know _how_ to read, let alone have _The_ _Sexual Contract_ on your reading list."

" _The Sexual_ _ **Contract**_ wasn't exactly what I was interest in," McCoy said dryly, amused to see Regan blush a little at the innuendo. "I'm disappointed to hear that standards are slipping."

"Young people today, huh," Regan said. "What can you do?" She flipped back to the beginning of the album and began to page through it in chronological order, a smile quirking her lips at the sight of a young John James McCoy on a tricycle. She turned a few more pages, seeing additions to the family, as the eldest son was joined by one, two, three siblings.

Then her smile faded. She turned back a page, studying one picture, flipped forward to look at another, her face growing increasingly serious as she turned the pages.

McCoy could guess what she was seeing. He cursed himself for putting the album in her hands instead of showing her the photo and then putting it away. _Regan used to be a cop. And she's no fool_.

Pictures of Mrs. McCoy with lingering traces of a black eye. Pictures of Jack with a cast on his wrist. With a black eye of his own. With a swollen lip at his high school graduation.

He took hold of the album and pulled it from her hands. Regan looked up, her expression one of concern, mouth open as if to speak. Something she saw in his face stopped her.

"You were a sweet baby," she said instead, smiling. "What the hell happened?"

McCoy laughed, as much with relief as at her weak joke. "You know the saying – the face you have as a child is the one you're given. By my age, the face you have is the one you've made."

"A self-made man – with unskilled labor," Regan teased. "So, not a man for photographs. Except that one." She pointed to a framed photo on the wall.

McCoy didn't need to turn to see which one she meant. There was only one. "That's Claire," he said, putting the photo album back on the shelf.

"She's beautiful," Regan said softly.

"Yes, she was," McCoy said. "Very beautiful. And her looks were the least remarkable thing about her."

"You loved her," Regan said. "Very much, I think."

"Very much." McCoy turned to look at the picture on the wall, Claire laughing out at him through the strands of hair the wind had tossed over her face, her eyes alight with humor and youth and happiness and _life_. "She was an astonishing woman, smart and idealistic and – " He stopped, unable to put into words the way Claire had moved him, the combination of strength and vulnerability, of determination and fragility, like a hothouse rose struggling to grow in an asphalt playground, beautiful and thorny and succeeding against the odds. He settled for: "She was astonishing."

Regan looked at him. "Do you ever think – do you wonder what – ?"

"For a while, it was all I thought about," McCoy admitted. The bottle of whiskey was on the shelf above the photo album and he picked it up. "We – I told you, we were arguing. And I was already thinking to myself, some days, this isn't going to end well. This isn't going to last. And I never knew – I still don't know if she would have had the _patience_ with me – you know, I was pretty stupid about what I – what I _did_ want, what I _should_ have wanted." He paused, bottle in one hand, glass in the other. Regan waited silently, and there was something about the quality of her silence that made it easy for McCoy to keep talking. "Claire," he said, "You know, before Claire, there was another woman I worked with. Diana Hawthorne. Another woman I worked with, had a relationship with. She was my second chair on a high profile case. The conviction made my career. I found out years later that she'd hidden exculpatory evidence and helped me convict an innocent man. She said that she thought that was what I wanted. That what I wanted was for her to be so much one hundred percent on my side that nothing else mattered, not the law, not ethics, not anything. And I told her, I told her that wasn't what I wanted, I told Claire it wasn't what I wanted, but I used to get angry with Claire when she argued with me, when she wasn't _with_ me a hundred percent, when she wasn't on my side." He poured a half-inch of whiskey into the glass he held and glanced inquiringly at Regan. She shook her head and McCoy recapped the bottle. "Maybe Diana did know me, after all. Maybe she did know what I wanted. I don't know if Claire would have had the patience to wait while I figured it out." He shrugged, raising the glass to his lips. "Maybe. Do you – ever wonder?"

Regan shook her head. "No. Everything went pear-shaped long before – before that day. I never – I never really knew what I was doing, being married, you know?"

"I don't think anybody ever does," McCoy said with a smile.

Regan smiled back, but she shook her head in disagreement. "I think some people do. They grow up, they see their parents, they know how to act, what to say to make it all work. Me – " she shrugged. "My parents didn't do much in the way of positive role modeling. And Gran-Da – he was married _forever_ , but my great-grandmother died before I was even born. He told me how to be a good cop and a good partner, but he never taught me how you love somebody."

"And what does a good partner do?" McCoy said, swirling the scotch in his glass.

"Back up your partner. Save them from their own mistakes. Stand shoulder to shoulder. Don't leave them out on their own."

"Good in theory," McCoy said. "I've prosecuted enough corrupt cops to know that in practice it can get you into trouble." Regan flinched and he said quickly: "I'm not saying in your case, Regan, I know you were a good cop."

"Used to be," Regan said softly. "Used to be."

"Now you're a good lawyer."

"I won't be any kind of lawyer if Mr. Branch gets wind of this," Regan said.

"He won't," McCoy reassured her.

"Still, I should go tomorrow," Regan said, shifting uncomfortably in her chair.

"I know," McCoy said. "I'll take you over to Abbie's in the morning."

"To Abbie's? Jack, I might be Arthur Branch's charity case but I won't be yours –"

"You aren't," McCoy said. "Abbie doesn't like being on her own in that house. _I_ don't like her being on her own in that house. You'd be doing me a favor."

Regan regarded him through narrowed eyes. "You and that damn white horse, Jack McCoy," she said at last, but she was smiling.

* * *

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> McCoy refers to the episode "Trophy". Thanks to mccoylover for suggesting the 'Jack McCoy – The College Years' theme. Yes, I am aware that Pateman's "The Sexual Contract" was not published at the time Jack McCoy would have been a law student.


	47. Hospitality

_Abbie Carmichael's Townhouse_

_7.30 am Monday, January 15_ _th_ _, 2007_

* * *

Regan held her gym bag in both hands, just inside the front door. "I really appreciate your hospitality," she said, wishing her voice didn't sound quite so strained.

Abbie didn't seem to notice. "I'm glad of the company. I just – I know it doesn't make sense, I just feel nervous here. On my own." She rested one hand protectively over her stomach. "Hormones are a bitch, right?"

"Right," Regan said.

"Let me show you your room. Did Jack warn you about the wallpaper?" Abbie led the way up the stairs. "Is that all you've got?"

"I have some stuff back at my apartment. Not much. I won't take up too much – "

"No, I just meant – if you had all your stuff in that bag, you'd have to be a world-class packer, like, gold medal quality, and I was starting to get an inferiority complex. Here we are." She opened the door to reveal what was obviously going to be the baby's room, complete with half-done re-decoration. "You can borrow my car to pick up your stuff if you want."

"Thanks," Regan said. When Abbie gestured her into the room, Regan stepped past her and put her bag down on the bed. "This is great. Thank you."

"I told you, I'm pleased to have you here. You know your way around downstairs, the bathroom's down the hall there. Holler if you need anything. It's been a whole fifteen minutes since breakfast so I, of course, am _starving_ again. I'll be in the kitchen."

_Beautiful, smart, happily married, pregnant – and tactful._

"Abbie – " Regan said as the other woman turned to leave. "Did Jack – did he say – why I – ?"

Smiling, Abbie shook her head. "Just that you couldn't stay where you were." She shrugged. "Your business."

"Okay," Regan said. _I'd be a lot more wary about letting someone move into my house._

Something of that must have shown on her face, because Abbie smiled, and said: "You come with Jack McCoy's recommendation. He's a pretty good judge of character."

Later that day, watching McCoy in the courtroom as he cross-examined a witness, playing off the man's reactions, finding the weak points, Regan had to agree with Abbie. McCoy was, indeed, a pretty good judge of character.

_And he judged me Abbie-Carmichael safe._

That wasn't all he'd judged her, though. _Safe_ , yes, but he'd sold her on the idea by saying _I don't like her being on her own in that house._

_He got_ _ **me**_ _right,_ Regan thought. All her plans to move back to the Breslin the minute McCoy's attention was elsewhere had evaporated the minute she'd seen the little protective gesture of Abbie's hand over her stomach, covering the child that she could probably already feel moving. Regan knew that she'd be spending the evening loading her few belongings into Abbie's SUV.

As McCoy strode back to the bar table, Regan was ready to hand him the first of the books stacked in front of her. He took it and turned to hold it out to the witness. "Can you read the highlighted portion of this text, please?"

The rest of the day didn't leave Regan much chance to ponder the accuracy of McCoy's judgments. As McCoy had anticipated, the defense asked for an adjournment at the lunch-break, their plan to portray the defendant as a victim of 'homosexual panic' thrown into disarray when McCoy revealed the defendant's extensive library of books describing successful uses of the defense in other jurisdictions. McCoy objected to the adjournment, but purely as a matter of form.

"We've got him, whether it's this afternoon or next week," he told Regan as they hurried to make the lights to cross Hogan Place. "Once the jury hears about the money – even Adler couldn't get an acquittal on this one."

"How did he think he could get away with it?" Regan said, raising her voice as a truck went past.

"I met a Baltimore Homicide Detective who had a theory about that," McCoy said, ushering her through the front doors with a hand at the small of her back. "He said crime makes you stupid."

Regan laughed as they crossed the foyer. "Good a theory as any. Crime sure made this mook dumb as a bag full of hair."

"I wouldn't mind slam-dunking him before dinner but we both have other fish to fry," McCoy said as he pressed the button for the elevator.

"That's a mixed metaphor and a half," Regan said. "What are these fish we're slam-dunking?"

"Whitford, _pere_ and _fils_."

Regan stepped back to let a couple of ADAs from Rackets off the elevator. "Aren't you going to piss off Tracey Kibre?"

"She's been pissed off with me for ten years, another few weeks isn't going to kill either of us," McCoy said as they got into the elevator. "Besides, I'm not going to get into her case on the daughter – but we still have a murder trial starting on Doctor Donald Whitford on Monday morning and I'm happy to take any extra time I can get to prepare." He glanced sideways at her. "You still up for cross-examining him?"

"I was _never_ up for cross-examining him," Regan said.

"Atta girl," McCoy said with a grin, making Regan smile despite herself. "We have to crack that alibi. You've given us motive, the means – well, easily available. The opportunity …"

"If the kids are telling the truth," Regan said, following him out of the elevator, "then he had no opportunity."

"The kids are lying. We have to crack one or both."

"Emma Whitford won't crack," Regan said, pausing at her cubicle door to throw her coat and briefcase inside and then following McCoy to his office. "Have you seen her?"

McCoy shook his head. "I'm a witness, remember?" He dumped his own case on the couch and dropped into his desk chair.

"Well, I went on over to Major Case while they had her there last week and took a look," Regan said, sitting down opposite him. "In case they let her out and I had to be watching my back, you know? She's got ice water where you and I have blood, Jack. It scared me looking at her, and there was one-way glass between us."

"We couldn't push her anyway," McCoy said. "I'd have to hand the case off again if that was the direction we were taking. No, let's concentrate on the boy."

"Tommy," Regan said. "Twelve years old. Says he spent the whole evening with his sister and father, playing monopoly."

"That's a good lie," McCoy. "Specific, but not _too_ specific. Not like TV, where you have to remember the programs that were on, where I could get the broadcast records from the stations and see what ads they played, trip him up on the stand by asking about what was on the newsbreaks. No, board games are what _I'd_ pick for an alibi lie."

"Must run in the family," Regan said. "You know, Emma Whitford and Peter Fraser told the cops they were at the art gallery when Mike Logan got shot? Same kind of lie. The pictures are always there, right? So as long as you've been at least once, you're good. As long as you've played monopoly _some_ time, you're good with that, too, so long as everybody remembers who won."

"Who did they say won?"

Regan frowned. "Hang on." She leaned back in her chair and hooked her fingers through the handle of one of the file boxes labeled 'Whitford', hoisting it into her lap. "Let's see, nope, here we go." She flipped through a file. "Emma. Emma. Emma. All three say they played twice and Emma won both games. That almost convinces me."

"You think she'd be a mean monopoly player." McCoy leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling.

"She'd be a mean _anything_ ," Regan said.

"You're saying that because you know what she's done," McCoy said, still studying the ceiling.

Regan shook her head even though he couldn't see her. "I don't think so."

"Goren and Eames met her when they were bracing Peter Fraser," McCoy reminded her. "They didn't pick up anything."

"So she's a good liar," Regan said.

"If she's everything you think she is, she's a class A sociopath." McCoy sat up a little and looked at Regan. "You don't meet too many of those, especially teenage girls."

Regan shook her head, not disagreeing, but not convinced either. "Well, whatever she is, she's not our problem."

"Right now, our problem is how to break Tommy Whitford loose from the alibi he gave his father." McCoy scratched his head. "We can't interview a minor without a parent or guardian present."

"Guardianship order?"

"Does he have any other family?" McCoy asked. "Preferably on the mother's side."

"Mother had just the one sister. Grandma's still living." Regan studied the file. "Lorraine Linton."

"You have an address?"

"Yeah, out in Trenton."

"Okay, take a pool car, go over there, talk her into a guardianship order. If you can, bring her back and have her in family court this afternoon." He reached for a pen. "I'll write the paper on it, have it waiting for you when you get back."

"All right," Regan said, copying the address from the file onto a post-it note. "He's going to need a lawyer, too."

"Carla Tyrell. I'll call her and set it up."

"I'm gone," Regan said, shoved the file box back in the pile on McCoy's table and made the words true.

She'd never been to Trenton, New Jersey until today and it took her a little longer than she'd expected because she got lost twice before she found Lorraine Linton's house.

When she finally got there, it wasn't what she'd expected. Lorraine's eldest daughter had died a wealthy woman, but she'd obviously not passed any of that wealth on to her mother. The house was cared for, the yard swept, but Regan estimated it was ten years since anyone spent any money on maintenance and thirty since any major work had been done.

She pulled on her coat for the short walk up the path, skirting a patch of ice and nearly tripping over a snow-covered plastic flamingo. Her knock was answered by a tall old woman who stood almost regally straight despite needing a cane.

"Mrs Linton?" Regan said. "I'm ADA Markham with the Manhattan DA's Office. I'm here to talk to you about your grandson, about what's best for him."

For a moment the old lady regarded her through the security door as Regan started to shiver. She felt as if she were being weighed up – and founding wanting. Finally Mrs Linton un-snibbed the lock.

"In that case," she said, "you'd better come in."

Lorraine Linton led Regan to a small sitting room, scrupulously clean and crammed with over-stuffed furniture. She didn't offer Regan coffee and she didn't offer to take Regan's coat. When she said "You'd better sit down," it was as if she was stating a fact rather than offering hospitality.

Regan sat and Lorraine lowered herself into the armchair opposite. "What can the Manhattan DA do when it comes to what's best for my grandson?"

"Ma'am," Regan said, "You know that your son-in-law is charged with murdering your daughter. I believe you also know that your grand-daughter Emma is charged with attempted murder of a senior prosecutor in our office, Mr Jack McCoy." Lorraine Linton gave a tiny nod. "Mrs Linton, Tommy is the main alibi witness for your son-in-law. As a minor, we can't talk to him without a parent or a guardian. Right now, that is the man charged with murdering your daughter. This puts your grandson in a difficult situation, Mrs Linton."

" _If_ my son-in-law is guilty," Lorraine said.

"Mrs Linton, it's generally our experience," Regan said gently, "that when someone is beaten to death and stuffed in the trunk of their own car and the car is burnt out, and there's nothing stolen, it's generally not a random crime. It's someone who knows them and has a reason to kill them. And Dr Whitford had a reason."

Lorraine Linton had paled as Regan spoke, but she shook her head. "I don't believe it, Ms Markham. I don't believe he could do such a thing."

"Mrs Linton, if there's _any_ possibility, any tiny doubt in your mind, you have to think about what that means for Tommy."

The old lady was silent for a moment. "Why are you here?" Lorraine said. "You say you want to do what's best for Tommy. What does it have to do with me?"

"Right now, we can only talk to Tommy when his father is there," Regan said. "If Tommy had a guardian who _wasn't_ his father, he might have the chance to tell us the truth, without any influence, any undue influence."

"What if he's _already_ telling the truth?" Lorraine asked.

"Then he can go on telling the truth," Regan said. "But until he has the chance – Mrs Linton, there's no way we can trust his testimony. I'd like to take you back to Manhattan this afternoon for a Family Court hearing, to make you Tommy's guardian."

Lorraine regarded her through narrowed eyes, and then abruptly stood up. Heart sinking, Regan stood as well, trying one last time before Lorraine asked her to leave. "Mrs Linton, we're not looking at Tommy for anything. He's not going to be in trouble with the DA no matter what. But – "

Lorraine cut her off. "You'll have to wait while I get my coat," she said. "Understand, Ms Markham, I don't believe a word of this story about Donald killing Eileen. But I don't see any harm in this. After all, if you people succeed in railroading my son-in-law into jail, someone will have to take care of the boy. He'll need a lawyer, too, I presume?"

"There's an excellent lawyer called Carla Tyrell who will take him on as a _pro bono_ client," Regan assured her. "She's very good. She'll look out for him."

"I should let the DA pick my grandson's lawyer?"

"You can pick whoever you choose, Mrs Linton. But I can assure you, Ms Tyrell is no patsy." Regan paused. "You're doing the right thing, Mrs Linton."

"I _know_ that," Lorraine said frostily. "I don't need you, young lady, to tell me."

Suitably chastened, Regan drove Lorraine back to Manhattan. As McCoy had promised, the paper for the family court hearing was waiting for her. Carla Tyrell met them at the court and Regan could see immediately that the smooth, self-possessed defense attorney was much more to Lorraine Linton's liking than she herself had been. Standing side and side, the old lady and the defense attorney could have been mother and daughter – not in their features, but in their cool assurance. Regan tried to remember if she'd ever felt that self-assured, felt for a second the memory of a gun weighing down one side of her belt. _Once_ , she thought. _I was like them, I knew exactly who I was and what I should be doing. Once. Before – before. Not any more._

The hearing went quickly and routinely, and Tommy was placed under the guardianship of his grandmother. Regan waited while Lorraine and Carla Tyrell conferred.

"Ms Markham, Mrs Linton and the children's services officer will go and pick up Tommy from his father's tonight," Carla said. "She'll bring him into the city in the morning and we'll talk. Say, ten am?"

"I'll have to check with Colleen Petraky," Regan said. "But assuming that there's nothing on Mr McCoy's schedule, that should be fine."

When she got back to Hogan Place and checked, McCoy had a senior staff meeting at ten, so she called Carla Tyrell and rescheduled for midday. McCoy was not in his office for her to tell him. Regan checked her watch – just gone five. It was unusual for him to leave so early, but when she looked, his jacket and bag were missing. He'd packed up and gone home for the day.

She felt a little pang of disappointment, only realizing as she felt it that she'd been looking forward to seeing him. _Danger, Will Robinson_ , she thought wryly.

Abbie was out when Regan got back to the townhouse, but she'd left her car keys on the kitchen counter with a note telling Regan where she'd parked and what the license plate was.

It took Regan less than an hour to pack everything she owned into Abbie's SUV and only fifteen minutes to carry it all into the townhouse. The boxes made a neat pile in the corner of the half-nursery, half-guestroom. She left the keys where she'd found them, amended the note to let Abbie know the car was twenty years further down the street, and headed out again.

Skoda was waiting for her. As always, he studied her for a second when she came in. "You look okay," he said. "Rested."

"I caught that bug going around," Regan said. "Spent the weekend in bed."

"Sleeping?" Skoda asked. Regan knew he wasn't trying for innuendo.

"Yeah," she said. "Pretty much. A few dreams. Nothing – nothing really bad."

"That's good," Skoda said.

"Yeah," Regan said. It _was_ good. It had been a long time since she could remember just lying down and sleeping soundly, but that weekend she'd slept the clock round, waking every now and then to hear the faint sounds of McCoy in the kitchen, in the living room. In fact, she hadn't had a really bad moment until the Sunday, when she'd jerked upright from a nightmare of _screaming_ and _Chuck going down hard on the steps_ and _help me, help me_ to hear the apartment completely silent, the stillness of emptiness. That had driven her out of bed.

She put that away to think about another time.

"I've moved," she said abruptly. "From my apartment. I'm staying with a friend."

"That's a big step," Skoda said.

"A _female_ friend," Regan clarified.

"Still a big step," Skoda said. "How long have you been living on your own?"

"Since – since – " Regan stopped, and then forced the words out: "Since the shooting. What, you think I'll freak out?"

"Oh, for sure, you'll 'freak out'," Skoda said. "Let's talk about what to look for and what to do about it."

He took her through it again – anxiety, startle response, calming techniques. Like every other time she'd seen him, Skoda's matter-of-fact tone let Regan think about what was happening to her as medical phenomenon, rather than shaming weakness, and she said as much to him as she stood to leave.

"You break a bone, Regan, it has to have time to knit," Skoda said. "You get hurt, you might need surgery, or physical therapy, to get back to where you were. What happened to you – the brain is part of the body. You can't just _will_ yourself all better."

"After," Regan started, stopped, took a deep breath. "After I – while I was still in hospital – they sent someone to talk to me. A shrink. She talked a lot about 'dealing with my feelings'."

Skoda waited for her to go on, and when she didn't he smiled a little. "And you didn't see her more than once?"

Regan shook her head. "Why did Jack know to – do you, like, specialize in this stuff? Cops?"

"No," Skoda said. "I specialize in abnormal psychopathology."

"Then how – ?"

Skoda shrugged a little. "I don't do much clinical work these days, and there are other people Jack could have sent you to. Elizabeth Olivet might have been a better fit. Nicer. More tolerant of your bullshit. Or George Huang. He's a nice guy, a lot of people would find him easier to open up to. But you know, Regan, _anyone_ could treat you. There's nothing special or different about you and your PTSD. Does that disappoint you?"

Regan surprised herself by grinning. "Not in the least," she said. "But I'm interested that Jack McCoy thought of _you_. Or am I trespassing on doctor-patient confidentiality?"

"Nice try," Skoda said. "Jack McCoy isn't a patient. But I do think he'd rather jump off the Brooklyn Bridge than listen to Liz Olivet empathize with his 'pain'. Maybe he thinks you're cut from the same cloth." He studied her for a moment. "I haven't seen you since Friday, and it looks like you're travelling okay. Why don't you skip tomorrow and come back Wednesday?"

"You think I'm getting better?" Regan asked.

"I think you're no longer in crisis. The other stuff – it's going to take longer," Skoda said. "Makes you wish you'd bitten the bullet a long time ago, right?"

" _Biting_ bullets was never my problem," Regan said.

She was in the elevator before she realized she'd just made a joke about something she'd never thought she could even _talk_ about.

_No longer in crisis_ , she thought.

_Well, how about that._

* * *

.oOo.


	48. Reversible Error

_Office of EADA Jack McCoy_

_10_ _th_ _Floor, One Hogan Place_

_11.45 Tuesday January 16_ _th_ _2007_

* * *

McCoy was later than he would have liked to be. _Damn Arthur and his need to share the wisdom of his years of experience_ , he thought, striding along the corridor to his office. _As if none of the rest of us have any experience of our own – and as if none of the rest of us have any actual_ _ **work**_ _to do, either!  
_

He barreled into his office and stopped short. A woman stood with her back to the door, studying a law report, jacket tossed casually on his couch _._ _Some defense attorney looking for a deal_ , he guessed, annoyed. _Colleen is supposed to keep people from hanging around in here unescorted._ He paused before telling her off, however, taking a second to appreciate the way her trousers set off her athletic figure and the nice line of her neck as she studied the book.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

She turned quickly, and McCoy thought for a second how much she looked like Regan Markham, that she might have been Regan's younger sister, and then a heartbeat later as a smile lit her face he saw that it _was_ Regan.

"Hey, Jack," she said. "Tyrell and Tommy and Mrs Linton will be here in fifteen. I've drawn up a list of contestable statements in what he told the police, along with all the forensics you might be able to use to shake him loose from his story. On your desk – there."

"Thanks," McCoy said. "Senior staff ran long – _again_." He sat down at his desk and picked up the pages Regan had prepared. "This is good," he said. "Good work." He looked up at her. "You look – you look good. Today."

She smiled and colored a little. "All that girl stuff is easier when you don't have ten other tenants queuing for the bathroom," she said.

"You like it at Abbie's?" he asked.

"You were right, Jack," Regan said, and rolled her eyes. "Okay? Happy now I've admitted it?"

He grinned. "What can I say? I'm a simple man, Regan."

"Or a complicated man with a huge ego," Regan said.

He laughed. "How complicated do you think Tommy Whitford is?"

Regan glanced toward the door of his office. "We're about to find out," she said. "Here they come."

Tommy Whitford was a skinny little kid, undersized for his age. He hung close to his grandmother's side, holding on to her hand like a younger child might. Carla Tyrell escorted them in and gave Lorraine Linton's arm a reassuring squeeze before stepping closer to McCoy.

"I'm here representing the _boy_ , Jack" she said in a low voice. "Our interests don't necessarily coincide. And I _will_ stop this if you push too hard."

"I'll be gentle," McCoy said, equally quietly, and got a sharp look from Carla. She raised her eyebrows.

"I've heard _that_ before," she said dryly, and they shared a smile.

McCoy turned back to Lorraine Linton and her grandson, catching a flicker of expression on Regan's face as he did before she was smoothly professional again.

"Tommy," McCoy said. "I'm Jack McCoy. I'm a prosecutor here. Do you know what that means?"

Tommy nodded. "You're the one who is going to put my daddy in jail."

McCoy shook his head. "I'm the one who is trying to find out who hurt your mommy," he corrected. "And I need you to help me with that. Do you want to come and sit over here and talk to me?" He gestured to the visitor's chair by the desk and Tommy shook his head. "Do you want to sit down on the couch?"

Tommy shook his head. "I want to go home," he said.

"I really need your help," McCoy persisted. "For your mommy's sake."

"No," Tommy said, lower lip trembling. "I want to go _home_."

"Okay, that's – " Carla started to say.

"Give me a _chance_ here, Carla," McCoy said, his voice quiet but intense.

"This child has been through _enough_ ," Carla said, just as softly, just as intensely. "I am _not_ having you badger him just because you have a hunch!"

"Five minutes," McCoy said. "Five minutes, Carla. How much damage do you think I can do in five minutes?"

She looked at him, and then blinked slowly, a lazy smile tugging up the corners of her mouth. "From memory?" she said very softly. "Quite a lot, in five minutes."

"Then give me five minutes here," McCoy said. "For old times' sake, Carla."

She considered, then nodded.

McCoy turned back to Tommy, but the boy wasn't standing by his grandmother's side anymore. Regan, leaning against the side table, had her cell phone in her hands and was intently staring down at it, and Tommy was standing next to her, peering over her arm. The phone made a faint electronic bleep and both Regan and Tommy frowned.

"Darn," Regan said. "I always get stuck there."

"You need the power-up on the other level to get through the maze," Tommy explained.

"What power-up?" Regan asked.

"Under the bush!" Tommy said.

"Can you show me?"

"Sure," Tommy said. "It's easy." He took the phone and Regan watched him as he pressed buttons. "See, it's here. You have to press 3 and hash at the same time. Got it! Here, I'll save it for you. You can just load and play from here, now."

He gave the phone back to her. "Thanks, Tommy," Regan said. "That maze was kicking my butt."

"No problem," Tommy said with a shrug, but he was blushing a little.

Regan dropped her phone in her pocket. "Tommy, I'm Regan. You know, I work with Mr McCoy here."

He nodded.

"Listen, Tommy, we're really stuck here," Regan said. "And Mr McCoy and me, we were hoping you could help us. Because there's really no-one else who can."

He looked down at his feet. "How?" he asked at last, in a small voice.

"We need you to talk to us about the night your mommy went away," Regan said.

"I don't like to talk about it," Tommy said shakily.

"I know," Regan said. "I know. There's lots of stuff in everyone's life they don't like talking about."

"Even grown-ups?"

"Even grown-ups. Even me. But sometimes, you just have to. And this is one of those times." Regan waited patiently until Tommy looked up at her. "Can you come and sit with me and your grandma on the couch and tell Mr McCoy what happened that night?"

He thought about it a long time, then gave a tiny nod.

When Tommy was seated on the couch between his grandmother and Regan, McCoy drew a chair over, careful to position it off centre so the boy wouldn't feel trapped. "Tommy," he said. "You remember the night we're talking about, right? The night your mommy got hurt?" Tommy nodded. "What happened that night?"

"We played monopoly," Tommy said. "We played it twice. Then I went to bed. It was late. I remember Daddy said it was two hours past my bedtime. My bedtime is 8.30."

_That would make it impossible for Donald Whitford to commit the murder and dispose of the body._ But Tommy's recitation didn't convince McCoy. It was almost exactly, word for word, what Tommy had told the police at his first interview. "Were you the boot?" he asked Tommy. "I'm always the boot."

Tommy shook his head. "I was the thimble. Daddy was the iron. We're always the thimble and iron. Those are the pieces Emma doesn't like."

"What piece was Emma?" McCoy asked.

"I don't remember," Tommy said, looking down at his hands. "Maybe she was the car. She likes being the car. When she's the car she says she's going to drive right over us."

"What other pieces does she like?" McCoy asked.

"She likes the cannon, to blow us away, and the man on the horse, to ride over us," Tommy said.

"Who won?"

"Emma won. Emma _always_ wins."

"Is she good at monopoly?" McCoy asked.

"Daddy's better. But Emma gets angry when she doesn't win," Tommy said. "Sometimes she gets angry when she does win."

"Does she get angry a lot?" McCoy asked, feeling a little chill at the fear in the boy's voice.

"Yeah," Tommy whispered, seeming to shrink into himself at the thought. McCoy could feel that gesture in his own body, that reflexive, protective hunch.

"What happens when Emma gets angry, Tommy?" he asked quietly.

"Bad things," Tommy whispered, almost inaudibly.

"Does Emma scare you, sometimes, Tommy?" McCoy asked.

"All the time," Tommy whispered, folding his arms over his stomach. "I don't want to talk about it. Bad things happen if you talk about it."

"You know, Emma's in a lot of trouble," McCoy said. "She tried to hurt some people, and she got caught doing it. She's been arrested, and she's going to jail."

Tommy shook his head. "Daddy says the lawyer will get her out."

"No, he won't," McCoy said. "We have eyewitnesses, and we have forensics. Do you know what that means?"

"Like CSI," Tommy said. "Emma likes that show."

"And one of the people she hurt was a police-officer. So she's not going to get out. She's going to be in jail for a long time, maybe forever." He put his hand on the boy's knee. "It's my job to put people in jail if they do bad things. And I'm very good at my job. Ask Regan."

Tommy looked sideways at Regan and she nodded. "He's the best, Tommy. Your sister is going to be in jail until she's an old, old lady."

"You don't need to ever see her again," McCoy said. "So you don't need to worry about her being angry with you." Tommy shook his head, and shrank away. McCoy squeezed his knee gently. "I know you're still afraid of her," he said. "Maybe a part of you always will be. But you have to learn to tell the difference between being afraid, and _remembering_ being afraid."

Tommy looked up at him. "You don't know," he said. "You don't know can happen when she gets angry."

"Yes, I do," McCoy said. Beside Tommy, Regan was very still. McCoy could feel her gaze on him, but he didn't care, didn't even care if Tommy Whitford _did_ end up telling them the truth about what happened the night his mother died. He held the boy's gaze with his own, feeling the small kneecap bony beneath his hand. "I _do_ know, Tommy. Do you believe me?"

"Yes," Tommy said softly.

"Then believe me when I tell you that you're safe now. She can't do anything to you anymore. Do you believe me?"

The boy was silent a long moment while McCoy held his breath. "Yes," Tommy said at last.

"Then will you tell me what happened the night your mother got hurt?"

Tommy nodded silently. McCoy waited but he didn't speak. "Were you playing monopoly?" he asked at last. Tommy shook his head. "What were you doing?"

"I was reading in my room," Tommy whispered. "I like being in my room. Daddy put a lock on my door, but Emma made him take it off. So I put a chair against the door. She can still get the door open but I hear her first."

"Better than nothing," McCoy said, and Tommy nodded. "So where was everybody else, while you were reading?"

"Daddy was downstairs. He was drinking. Mommy and Emma were out. Then I heard them come in. I heard Emma, because she was shouting."

"Who was she shouting at?"

"She was shouting at Mommy. She was angry. She was angry about the money. _Her_ money. From Aunt Emma. She wanted Mommy and Daddy to give her the money. She made Daddy sign some papers. For my money, too. Daddy hugged me and cried, after he signed. He said he was sorry. But I didn't care about any money, so long as Emma wasn't angry."

"Oh, my god," Lorraine Linton said softly, putting her arm around Tommy's shoulder.

"They were arguing downstairs," McCoy said. "Then what happened?"

"They argued louder and louder. Emma wanted Mommy to sign the papers. Mommy wouldn't. Then I heard Daddy yelling too."

"Was he angry?"

"He was scared. He was yelling and yelling and I didn't know what to do. I went outside my room and I stood on the stairs and – and – and – " Tommy panted for breath, tears threatening. His grandmother tightened her grip on him but McCoy gave her a warning glance and she didn't interrupt. "And I _saw_ Emma and she had _blood_ on her, on her shirt, and her _face_ , and she _looked_ at me, and she _smiled_ and then I ran back in my room and got under the bed. And then I heard Daddy and Emma talking, and then they went out. And Mommy was gone." He was crying hard by the time finished.

"Jack," Carla Tyrell said softly.

McCoy nodded. "Thank you, Tommy. You were really brave."

"Is he going to have to testify?" Lorraine Linton asked. "In a court?" She was white as paper but otherwise composed. At her words, Tommy started shaking his head.

"No, no, I can't!" he said.

"I'll make a deal with you, Tommy, okay?" McCoy said. "I will do everything I can to make sure you don't have to go to court and tell a judge what you told me. I promise. But if the judge says you have to testify, have to tell in a court, I want you to promise me that you will try. Okay? Just try."

Tommy bit his trembling lower lip and nodded. "Okay," he whispered. "I'll try."

"Okay. You can go home with your grandma now. You did really well." McCoy moved his chair back to give Tommy and his grandmother room to get up from the couch. "You helped us a lot, Tommy."

Carla Tyrell ushered Lorraine and Tommy to the door and turned back. "Do I need to call Sally Bell about this?" she asked.

"You know me better than that, Carla," McCoy said. "I'm not interested in convicting people for what they didn't do. You can check with Sally this evening if you doubt me."

When the door closed behind Carla he turned and went to his desk, yanked open the drawer and pulled out the bottle and glass, needing a drink just about as badly as he could remember. His back to Regan, he splashed whiskey in the glass and knocked it back straight away.

When he could turn and face her she was looking at him with what he thought of as her 'cop face' on, impersonal kindness in her eyes.

"Jack – " she said.

"Don't say a word, Regan, not one fucking word!" he said harshly. She held up her hands, sketching a gesture of surrender and McCoy closed his eyes and turned away again for a moment. "Sorry," he said finally, and swallowed hard. "Call Sally Bell. Tell her we want to talk to her client. Here, her office – wherever. But this afternoon."

Regan nodded, and took a step toward him. McCoy stiffened, and she made the same placating gesture with her hands. "Phone," she said, pointing to his desk.

"Right," McCoy said. He picked it up, meaning to put it where she could reach it more easily, but Regan came closer and took it from him. She didn't look at him as she dialed Sally Bell's number, but she stood close enough to him that he could feel the warmth of her body. Her hand rested on his desk by his. When he set the empty glass down his fingers brushed hers.

Neither of them moved away.

* * *

.oOo.


	49. Confession

_Office of EADA Jack McCoy_

_10_ _th_ _Floor, One Hogan Place_

_3 pm Tuesday January 16_ _th_ _2007_

* * *

"Mr Whitford, I think I should tell you, we know everything," McCoy said.

Donald Whitford looked at him. "You people always say that," he said. "I've had four different police detectives tell me they know everything, and not one of them has known what time of day it is." He looked sideways at Sally Bell for reassurance. She put her hand on his arm.

"Just listen to them," she urged.

"You're supposed to be on _my_ side," Whitford said.

"I am. I'm _your_ lawyer. And I think you should listen to what Mr McCoy has to say."

Regan, leaning against the radiator by the window behind McCoy's desk, was relieved. Her last encounters with Sally Bell had been a lot more adversarial – but McCoy had taken Sally aside when she arrived and said something to her in a low voice, something that had made her give him a sharp look. _And now she's the soul of sweet reason._

"Your son talked," McCoy said, leaning forward over his desk, folded arms resting on the blotter. "I told him what I'm going to tell you: no matter what happens, your daughter is going to jail and she's going for a long time. She can't hurt Tommy any more."

"Or you," Regan added.

"We know she wanted to get her hands on the money her aunt left," McCoy went on. "We know you were willing to sign, but your wife refused. We know that Emma and your wife were arguing about it the night Eileen was killed and we know that afterwards Emma was covered in blood." He paused. "And we know that you helped Emma take your wife's body and put it in the car and burn the car out. So this is where we stand. You're an accessory after the fact to the murder of your wife. Juries don't look kindly on that kind of thing. On the other hand, we understand that you were under a lot of pressure, domestically. That you were afraid for your son's safety. For your own safety. We could take that into consideration."

"A custodial sentence would make it very hard for you to regain custody of your son," Regan said.

"A suspended sentence, on the other hand, wouldn't present the same impediment," McCoy said. "And for full co-operation, and a plea, that could be a possibility. But if we go to trial – "

Whitford shot a quick look at Sally Bell. "What do you think?"

"It's a generous offer," Sally said. "You would lose your medical license, but you would keep your son, keep your freedom – and your assets, right, Jack?"

"I don't see them as the proceeds of this crime," McCoy said.

Whitford shook his head. "You're telling me to send my daughter to _jail_. You know what will happen to her in there!"

"Your daughter is _going_ to jail," McCoy said. "There is nothing you can do, no lie you can tell, that can stop that. We're here to talk about whether or not _you_ are going to jail."

"I know what will happen to Emma in jail, Dr Whitford," Regan said. "Do you know what will happen to Tommy if she's free?"

"Dammit!" Whitford said. He put his face in his hands.

"Emma stole Tommy's mother from him," McCoy said. "Don't let her take his father as well."

"Oh, dammit, goddammit," Whitford said. He raised his head and his eyes were red and moist. "Do you have any idea what it's like to be afraid of your own kid? Your own daughter? I swear to god, that girl, I don't know – I just don't know." He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.

"What happened, Dr Whitford?" McCoy asked.

"Just like you said. Emma was angry with Eileen. She wanted the money. I wanted to let her _have_ the money. I thought maybe she'd take it and leave us all, leave us all alone. But Eileen never believed me about Emma. She wasn't there much, she was with her sister, you know, and she just thought Emma needed a firm hand. That's what she said, 'a firm hand'." He shook his head. "I tried a firm hand. I tried everything. Every book. I took her to three different shrinks. I tried _everything_. And she was always just the same."

"How, 'the same'?" McCoy asked.

"She used to hit her brother, hit me. With her fists. With whatever she picked up. She threatened me with a knife. More than once. One time she tipped boiling water on my feet because I asked her to set the table for dinner. You never knew what was going to set her off. In the end I just tried not to aggravate her, and Tommy just tried to stay out of her way."

"Dr Whitford, I have to ask," McCoy said. "It wasn't just you. Your son was living in fear in his own home. Why didn't you call the police? Why didn't you send Tommy to other relatives, at least? Why didn't you protect him? He was your _son_ , for chrissakes!"

Whitford shook his head helplessly. "Because – because I was _ashamed_ , I was _ashamed_ to have my own daughter, my little girl, to have her scare me like that, to know that I raised such a _monster_."

"Some people are just born bad, Dr Whitford," Regan said. "It's not in the raising. It's just how they are."

He shook his head. "I raised her. I should have done better. And – I didn't want anyone to know. I didn't want anyone to know. And now my wife is _dead_ , because I didn't want anyone to _know_!"

"And everybody knows," Regan said. "Some things, doctor, some things just can't be hid. Not for long."

"After a while," Whitford said, "It was just how we lived. It was the way we lived."

McCoy looked at him in silence for a moment. "I'm not sure you should have custody of Tommy, Dr Whitford," he said at last.

Whitford looked at him. "I'm not sure either," he whispered.

Regan let the silence stretch out for a moment, looking at Donald Whitford sitting slumped and hopeless in his chair, looking at McCoy's hand white knuckled on the armrest of his chair. She couldn't see his face but she could feel the anger coming off him like steam off simmering water.

Finally she realized that McCoy wasn't going to say anything. "Dr Whitford, you bought your daughter a gun?" she said. When he nodded, she went on: "And she was out of the house the night someone tried to drive over Mr McCoy with your car?"

"Yes," Whitford said.

"We'll need you to testify about that," Regan said. "And we're going to need you to testify about the night of your wife's murder, when the DA's Office files against Emma for that murder." Whitford nodded.

"Full co-operation," McCoy said, his voice harsh as a rusty hinge. "And that means what we decide it means, whenever we decide. You understand?"

"Yes," Whitford said. He shook his head. "I'll do whatever my lawyer tells me to do. You work it out with her."

"Come on, Donald," Sally Bell said. She urged him to his feet and led him toward the door, turning back to look at Regan and McCoy. "I assume I'll be hearing from you about your nolle prosequi?"

"And you'll be hearing from Tracey Kibre about her requirements for your client's testimony," McCoy said.

When the door closed behind Sally and Whitford, McCoy sat silently for moment, then turned his chair to look up at Regan. "So," he said. "So much for _People v Donald Whitford_."

"Yeah," Regan said. "You know, all that time I was chasing the money, I never considered that he might actually be innocent."

McCoy shook his head. "He's not innocent. He's just not guilty of the crime we charged him with." He sighed, and ran his hand over his face. "I'd still like to send him to jail. But … "

"But?"

"But I don't think it's in the best interest of _Tommy_. And that kid needs a good break." He reached for his phone and dialed an internal number. "Colleen, I need a chambers hearing with Justice Steinmen ASAP. It's a nol pros. Donald Whitford." He hung up the phone and sat silent for a moment, his hand still resting on the receiver.

"Jack," Regan said after a moment, "Donald Whitford is a victim too, like Tommy."

"No," McCoy said, voice hard. "Donald Whitford is a grown man. And Eileen Whitford was a grown woman. They should have seen the damage that was being done. They should have _stopped_ it. They should have _protected_ Tommy." He was on his feet, voice raised, leaning into Regan's face. "That's what parents should do, Regan, they should _protect_ their kids, not stand by and let it _happen_."

"Okay," Regan said softly. "Okay."

McCoy turned away abruptly, leaning his hands on his desk, head down. _If you want to tell me about your childhood,_ Regan had said in the car on the way back from Carthage, _I'll consider telling you about mine_ – and felt him close down so completely it had been for a moment as if he were not even there. _Something there, something bad_ , she'd thought, and after seeing the McCoy family picture album she had a better idea of what it might be. Now she looked at the locked line of his shoulders and thought _Parents should protect their kids._

Her impulse was to go to him, to put her hand on his shoulder, to take him in her arms, but his bearing was too forbidding. Instead, Regan waited silently until he took a deep breath and straightened.

"Well," McCoy said, "Our case load just got lighter. You might as well take the rest of the day."

"How about you?" Regan said.

"I have to go in and tell Arthur I just made one of his higher-profile cases disappear," McCoy said. "I'd ask you to join me, but I prefer to get my spanking in private." Regan hesitated, and McCoy waved her toward the door. "Go on. Take the rest of the day." Then, as Arthur Branch's raised voice became audible through the side door of the office: "While the going's good, Regan!"

She nodded, and made it through the main door as Branch flung open the side door. "Please tell me you haven't completely lost your mind, Jack!" he said.

Regan stepped quickly to the side, out of sight, but she couldn't resist staying by the door to eavesdrop.

"What's this nonsense I hear about a nol pros on Donald Whitford?" Branch demanded.

"I don't believe he murdered his wife," McCoy said. "I can't prosecute him for a crime I don't believe he committed."

"Somebody else in the office can, somebody who doesn't happen to share your opinion!" Branch said.

"Any prosecutor in this office would come to the same conclusion I have," McCoy said. " _Emma_ Whitford committed that murder. Tracey Kibre can add it to the charges."

"You're very confident in your judgment, Jack," Branch said. "We both know it hasn't always been perfect."

"If _you_ don't feel you can rely on my judgment you can have my resignation on your desk any time you'd like," McCoy snapped. "This is my _job_ , making these kinds of decisions. And I understand that you have other considerations, I take them into _account_ , but I'll be damned before I'll prosecute a man for a crime he didn't commit to help you with the voters!" He was shouting loudly enough for not just Regan but anyone else on the 10th floor to hear him.

"Then your judgment better be damn infallible on everything else," Branch warned. "Making these kind of high and wide calls without so much as a by-your-leave uses up your credit with me, Jack. You might find your account empty next time you need to draw on it. And speaking of people whose accounts are overdrawn, you can tell Ms Markham to come and see me before she leaves for today. I've got a fundraiser tonight and it's time she started paying back some of the favors I've done her."

"Regan's left for the day," McCoy said.

"That kind of favoritism doesn't make me any more comfortable," Branch said. "Maybe there should be someone else in your second chair."

"I decide who works with me on which cases," McCoy said sharply. "That's _non negotiable_ – it always has been."

"If you leave me only one way to resolve a problem," Branch said, "Then be _damn_ sure you don't cause one."

Regan heard heavy footsteps coming toward the door and dived around the corner, out of sight. She saw Branch walking toward her office and eased further back before he could see her, listening until he looked in her door and confirmed for himself that she wasn't there, and then went back to his office.

She stood still a moment. Part of her wanted to go back into McCoy's office and – _and what? Confront him? Console him? Tell him he made the right decision? Tell him he's endangering_ _ **my**_ _career as well as his own?_

_No._ McCoy had told her to go home. He didn't want to talk to her, didn't want her company.

_And given what Mr Branch just said, maybe that's just as well._

With a quick look down the corridor to make sure Branch couldn't see her, Regan darted for her office, pausing only long enough to grab her coat and bag.

She wasn't sure if anyone saw her as she headed for the elevator – but no-one stopped her. No-one even tried to.

* * *

.oOo.


	50. Full Disclosure

_Abbie Carmichael's Townhouse_

_7.30 pm Friday February 2_ _nd_ _2007_

* * *

Standing on the stepladder, Regan fitted the next sheet of wallpaper carefully at the top of the wall, made sure it was straight, and began to smooth it down. As she worked, she hummed along to the radio propped on top of the furniture and belongings piled carefully in the corner of the room. _Would I see it for the precious thing, that it might one day be …_ Halfway down the strip she climbed down from the stepladder to reach the bottom. _Hold on to me._ That strip finished, she picked up another and peeled the edges apart and climbed back up the ladder. Concentrating, she matched the pattern and began to smooth the paper down. _If you offered me a point of view …_

Regan decided that hanging wallpaper, finicky, but mentally undemanding, was exactly what she needed after the last week, especially with the soothing counterpoint of a husky alto murmuring _hold on to me_ from the radio _._

Tracey Kibre had been prosecuting Emma Whitford and there had been not one thing Regan or Jack McCoy were allowed to do to help her. They were witnesses, and that was all. Regan had found it almost impossible to keep her cool, knowing what was at stake in a courtroom only a few doors away from where she and McCoy were trying a carjacker, knowing that it was entirely in someone else's hands. McCoy had found it _completely_ impossible, and he wasn't a man to keep his temper under wraps.

She spread glue on the back of a new piece of paper, singing softly. "I'll hold on to this gift we share…" _Four more pieces should do it._ The room would be finished when Abbie got back from Houston. "As slippery as it is rare…"

Regan had already firmly resolved to keep her distance from McCoy when she'd overheard Branch's veiled threats. That conversation had reinforced her resolution. The first week had taken a certain amount of willpower – especially since McCoy had invited himself to dinner at Abbie's several times. Looking at him across the dinner table had made Regan want to throw caution and better judgment to the winds, especially when he caught her watching him and gave her his crooked, knowing smile.

 _If I asked you for a simple thing …_ the second week hadn't taken any willpower at all. _Well, except for the self-restraint required in not socking him right in the kisser whenever he answered a perfectly reasonable question with a three-minute tirade._

Regan picked up the next sheet of wallpaper by the corners and was about to climb back up the ladder when she heard the doorbell. She folded the paper so the glue wouldn't dry and headed for the stairs as the song faded behind her. _I'll hold on to that feeling of waking and finding you there_.

"I'll hold on to you," she sang as she jogged down the stairs, "you hold on to me."

The doorbell rang again, a long impatient peal.

"I'm coming!" she shouted. "Hang on."

Throwing the bolt without checking the spy-hole, she was struck dumb to see Jack McCoy on her doorstep. Her heart skipped a beat then picked up at a faster pace.

He looked her up and down. "Am I interrupting something?" he asked, grinning. Regan was suddenly acutely aware that she had wallpaper paste on her jeans and shirt, even in her hair where it had strayed loose from its ponytail.

"Wallpapering," she said. "If you're looking for Abbie, she's not here – "

"I was looking for you," McCoy said, with a smile that made Regan blush. "Can I come in? It's freezing."

"Sure," Regan said, stepping back from the door. McCoy stepped over the threshold and pushed the door shut behind him. He held up a bottle of champagne. "Emma Whitford was convicted on all counts. ADAs not yet born will be opposing her parole."

Regan returned his smile. "Great," she said. "That's great."

"Got glasses?" he asked.

"I'll get them." Regan headed for the kitchen, hearing McCoy following her. She fetched a couple of champagne glasses as McCoy opened the bottle, and put them on the counter so he wouldn't see her hands tremble at his proximity.

"Here's to justice," McCoy said, raising his glass.

"To dumb defendants and smart jurors," Regan said, touching her glass to his. She took a sip, and then realized she'd left the wallpaper draped over the stepladder. "Oh, shit," she said. "Hold on!"

Putting her glass down, she hurried back upstairs. The paste hadn't dried, and she climbed up on the ladder to press the paper to the wall. As she smoothed it down, McCoy's voice made her jump. "Not many people think of hanging wallpaper as a good Friday night."

She glanced over her shoulder to see him leaning against the doorframe, both glasses of champagne in his hands. "I wanted to surprise Abbie when she got back."

He took a step closer and peered at the fresh paper. "This is pretty good. Looks professional."

"Yeah, I'm a failure at cooking and sewing, but anything that you need to roll up your sleeves for, I'm your woman," Regan said flippantly as she smoothed down the bottom of the sheet.

"Promise?" McCoy said slyly.

Regan found her mouth suddenly dry. She stood up and reached for the glass in McCoy's hand, taking a long gulp of champagne. "You need some wallpapering done?"

"You never know," McCoy said.

She gave the glass back to him. The radio had changed to a song she didn't like and she clicked it off, then picked up the last piece of paper. "I'll be done in a minute."

"Take your time," McCoy said. As Regan bent over to pick up the paste, he added: "I'm enjoying the view."

She felt herself blush and concentrated on spreading the paste evenly. "So isn't everybody out celebrating the win?"

"I guess," McCoy said. "Lennie said something about the Lord Roberts."

"Didn't interest you?" Regan climbed up the ladder and pressed the last piece of paper on the wall.

"It's no good, going home alone after a win."

Regan finished smoothing the paper and stood up. She stepped back to look at her handiwork and nearly ran into McCoy, unexpectedly close behind her. He steadied her awkwardly, champagne glasses in both hands, and then reached around her to give her one of the glasses.

She took the glass and he lowered his hand, but only slightly, resting his fingers lightly on her arm. It was almost an embrace. _Oh, tell the truth to yourself, Regan. It's_ _ **definitely**_ _an embrace._ Regan knew she should pull away but her willpower wasn't equal to the task. McCoy trailed his fingers slowly along the inside of her arm, wrist to elbow and back, and Regan sighed. Ripples of warmth spread out from his touch, washing along her nerves. McCoy set his glass down on the stepladder and then took Regan's from her, putting it beside his own.

"Haven't we both been cautioned against this?" Regan asked softly.

McCoy put his hand under her elbow and turned her gently to face him. "Then we should be careful not to get caught," he said. He hooked one finger inside the neck of her shirt and pulled her gently towards him. When Regan let him draw her forward, he smiled lazily. She met his gaze, blushing a little.

"Don't look so smug," she whispered.

"I'm not feeling smug, I can assure you," McCoy said. He bent his head and brushed his lips against hers, brief light kisses that raised the hair on the back of her neck and started heat coiling in her belly. She opened her mouth against his, brushing his lips with her tongue. McCoy took the invitation, tracing her lips, teasing her tongue with his own. Regan's breath caught as he deepened the kiss, heat running through her veins.

Then McCoy lifted his other hand to her collar and slipped loose the first button of her shirt.

Regan covered his hands with her own.

"Regan," he coaxed, moving on to the next button. Regan tightened her fingers over his and McCoy stopped undoing buttons. He pulled his hands free of hers and put his arms around her, moving her backwards to the wall. He kissed her cheek, her jaw, her neck, traced her collarbone with his tongue, drawing a moan from her. Her knees trembled and she clutched at his shoulders.

Then she realized he was pulling her shirt free of her jeans, fingers fumbling with the buttons. She held the shirt together as McCoy kept unbuttoning it. "Don't," she whispered. "Please."

McCoy stopped, and straightened. He kissed her deeply, urgently, and then as she leaned weakly against him, he pulled away and looked down at her.

"I don't think I'm reading this situation wrong," he said hoarsely.

"I'm sorry," Regan whispered. "I'm sorry. I can't."

For a moment longer he held her with his gaze, fingers still resting lightly against the fabric of her shirt. Regan felt as if her entire body were electrified by a desire so intense it surpassed longing and wanting and entered the realm of pure need. Every beat of her racing heart urged her to give in to the throbbing heat spreading from between her legs to suffuse her whole body.

_But I can't. I can't let him see. I_ _**can't** _ _._

She closed her eyes and turned her face away from him.

McCoy sighed, and stepped back. "All right," he said, and Regan heard irritation in his voice. She risked a glance at him and saw that he was frowning.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"I thought you wanted – " McCoy said, paused.

"I did – I _do_ – but – "

"Well, if you figure out what you _do_ want, let me know," McCoy said. "I should go."

"I guess," Regan whispered, looking at the floor.

"I'll let myself out," McCoy said. "Enjoy the rest of the champagne."

She stayed leaning against the wall for long minutes after she heard the door close downstairs, tears running down her face. Then she sniffed hard, rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands, and started cleaning up the wallpaper paste.

Her cell phone rang just as she was finishing and her heart leapt. When she fumbled it out of her pocket, though, the caller ID said 'Briscoe'.

"Hey, Lennie," she said, trying not to sound disappointed.

"Regan, where are you?" he asked. "Jury came back on Emma Whitford – guilty, all counts!"

"I heard," Regan said.

"Well, get yourself down to the Lord Roberts!" Briscoe said. "You have to celebrate a win like this one."

Regan thought about it. She wasn't sure she wanted to be surrounded by a lot of happy drunken lawyers and cops – but as she listened to the silence in the house she didn't want to be on her own, either.

It took her five minutes to change into clean clothes and brush the paste from her hair, and ten more to get to the bar in a cab.

The Lord Roberts was crowded but Regan didn't have any trouble spotting the group from the NYPD and DA's Office – they were the loudest and largest there. She threaded her way through the crowd towards them.

"Regan!" Briscoe said, spotting her, and Regan saw Wheeler raise her glass from where she stood arm-and-arm with Serena. She waved back, cuffed Green on the shoulder, and slipped off her coat.

"What'll you have, counselor?" Goren asked.

Regan thought about it. "Tequila," she said at last. " _Lots_ of tequila."

As Goren turned toward the bar his movement revealed Mike Logan in a wheelchair, Gina Lowe hovering protectively beside him. He raised his glass to Regan and she edged around Tracy Kibre to get to him.

"You're up and about!" she said.

"They gave me a leave pass for tonight," Logan said. Up close, the lines of pain and fatigue were still evident on his face. "Be a little while before they let me out for good." He took a sip of his drink and pulled a face. "And a while before they let me have a _real_ drink, too."

"When they do, let me know," Regan said. "I'm buying."

"Deal," Logan said promptly. "Although I hear that I owe you and Jack McCoy a round – you two broke the case?"

"Jack did," Regan said. "I was just standing next to him at the time."

"Don't be too modest," Logan advised her. "If McCoy's anything like he used to be when I was at the 2-7, he won't be knocking you down in his haste to share the credit and the glory." He looked across at Wheeler and raised his voice a little. "Not like me, eh, Wheeler?"

Wheeler grinned at him and pulled a little away from Serena to lean toward Logan and Regan – although, Regan noticed, her fingers stayed twined with the attorney's. "No, you're the soul of generosity, Mike."

Logan grinned, the expression going a long way to lifting the marks that pain and exhaustion had left on his face. "The worst thing about getting shot is that I missed the captain ripping my partner a new one for – what was it, Wheeler?"

"Recklessness," Goren supplied, handing Regan her drink. "Ignoring regulations. Lack of restraint and self-discipline. And – "

"All right!" Wheeler said, blushing. "I learned my lesson, okay?"

"It was pretty spectacular," Eames said, her tone teasing. "I'm sorry you missed it, Mike. Even with the captain's door closed it was quite a show."

"He was pissed you shot Fraser?" Regan asked.

"I shot him maybe a little more than was absolutely necessary," Wheeler said.

"In the heat of the moment," Goren explained.

"Having to make life-and-death decisions in an instant," Eames said.

"Natural over-reaction to imminent threat," Logan added.

Regan looked from one to the other. "Am I hearing a common song-sheet here?"

Logan smiled. "We might have spent a little time prepping Wheeler for her board hearing."

"But it's good to know you learned your lesson," Eames said. "What lesson was that, exactly?"

Wheeler, still blushing, looked at Logan. Their gazes locked for a second. "Trust my instincts," Wheeler said softly.

Regan's glass was empty, but there was another full one before her and she reached for it and took a long swallow. _Partners_ , she thought. _Goren and Eames_. _Logan and Wheeler_. _Two people, one unit._

Once upon a time she had been _Durham and Reagan._ Two people, her and Marco, two very different people, but no-one had ever referred to them as different, separate people. _Durham and Reagan,_ like it was one word, a name for that very particular kind of creature that two police officers working with one purpose made.

_Goren and Eames. Logan and Wheeler. Briscoe and Green. Stabler and Benson._

But no more _Durham and Reagan._ No more _Reagan,_ even.

Just Markham, a name she hadn't been born with and, ironically, hadn't taken until after it had become apparent she couldn't live up to it.

 _Markham and McCoy._ Except it wasn't, was it? _Partners know all the secrets._

_Partners know everything._

She could pretend to herself she had a partner – but _partners have no secrets_ was the brick wall where all her self-delusion ended.

Her glass was empty.

"My round," Regan said, reaching for her bag.

* * *

Briscoe looked around at the nearly empty bar. Linda Ronstadt was down so low on the jukebox. Almost all the lawyers and cops celebrating the win had called it a night. Gina had long ago taken Mike back to the hospital. Wheeler had gone with them with a quick 'See you at home,' to Serena. Briscoe smiled to himself at the memory. _Wouldn't call her 'Baby Bird' anymore,_ he thought. _She's Mike's partner, no question. Fully fledged._

He hoped she'd have more luck making things work with Serena than most cops managed when it came to their personal lives. _Serena will understand the job, at least. And with the money she has to be pulling down, they won't be having the 'Why can't you go private and make a decent living' conversation that takes up most payday_ _evenings_ _in police households._

 _Good luck to them._ They were both standup as far as Briscoe was concerned. He had his doubts about big Bobby Goren from Major Case. _He's a strange one, no question._ But Briscoe was willing to give Goren the benefit of the doubt if he came with Alex Eames's stamp of approval – and Goren had been on his best behavior tonight, buying drinks, making small talk like a normal person.

 _And he broke the case, him and Eames._ As far as Briscoe was concerned, that bought a lot of tolerance for quirky behavior. _So yeah,_ _I guess Goren is standup too._

He looked across at the only two people left of the crowd who'd been celebrating, his own partner – eyes a little glassy, but still steady on his feet – and Regan Markham, somewhat more the worse-for-wear.

"Time to go," he said. Green nodded, and put his hand on Regan's shoulder.

"Let's go, counselor," he said.

"One more," Regan said blurrily.

"You've had one more than one more," Briscoe said. "Come on. Looks like I'm the designated driver again."

He shepherded them out into the cold night air.

"Feel sick." Regan announced. Briscoe took one large unchivalrous step backwards. Green was more considerate.

"You okay?" he said, bending towards her, and then jumped back as Regan retched. "Oh, man! Oh, man, she threw up on my shoes!"

Briscoe shook his head. "Sometimes chivalry just doesn't pay off," he said from the safety of the other side of the sidewalk. "You done there, honey?"

Regan nodded and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. "Think so."

"Okay. Let's get a cab. See you Monday, Ed."

"Manhattan's murderers willing," Green said, still trying to scrape his shoes on the curb.

Briscoe steered Regan down the street and hailed a cab. As it pulled up Regan tugged his sleeve.

"Hafta see Jack," she said. "Hafta go see Jack."

"You know," Briscoe said, "I'm not sure that's such a good idea right now."

"Yes it is," Regan said. "Hafta see Jack."

He opened the door of the cab for her. "Tomorrow," he suggested.

"No! Hafta see Jack!" Regan insisted, pulling away as he tried to put her into the cab. The driver was looking curiously at them and Briscoe flashed his badge.

"Okay," he said, recognizing the signs of an argumentative drunk. "We'll go see Jack."

He was hoping Regan would fall asleep in the cab, but she was still awake when they pulled up outside McCoy's building.

"Are you sure about this?" Briscoe asked her.

She nodded. Briscoe sighed, and led her up the steps to the door. He had to flash his badge to the doorman to get him to let them in. The man watched them suspiciously as Briscoe called McCoy's number.

The phone rang for a moment before it was answered.

"What?" McCoy's voice was ragged with sleep and annoyance.

"Jack, it's Lennie Briscoe."

"What's wrong?" McCoy asked instantly. "What's happened?"

"Nothing," Briscoe said. "I'm in your lobby, with ADA Markham. She says she has to see you."

"Jack!" Regan said, leaning into Briscoe to shout into the phone. "Hafta talk to you."

"She's kinda buzzed," Briscoe said.

He could hear McCoy's sigh of exasperation clearly through the phone.

"Bring her up," McCoy said. "I'll put coffee on."

* * *

McCoy opened the door to Briscoe's knock and took in the cop and Regan, leaning half against him and half against the wall. "Sorry, Jack," Briscoe said. "I couldn't talk her out of it."

McCoy ran his hand though his hair. "I can imagine," he said.

"Jack," Regan said. "Want to talk to you." She swayed and stumbled forward. McCoy grabbed her arm and steadied her.

"Thanks, Lennie," he said, opening the door a little wider and steering Regan inside. Briscoe took a half a step forward, eyebrow raised. "It's okay," McCoy said. "I got this." When Briscoe didn't step back, McCoy frowned. "You think I need a chaperone? You think I'd take advantage of her?"

Briscoe raised his hands a little in apology. "Sorry, Jack."

McCoy waited until the cop had turned away and then shut the door and turned to Regan. "Kitchen," he told her, guiding her down the hall. He settled her at the kitchen table and poured her a cup of the coffee he'd started brewing while he waited for Briscoe and Regan to come upstairs. "Drink this," he told her.

"Coffee … doesn't sober you up, d'you know?" Regan said. "Makes you _think_ it does. Heat, caffeine … makes you _think_ you're okay. Ma'es you think you can get in your car an' drive home an' you're fine right up until you lose control on the highway and go head-on into a minivan with a school choir on their way home from the state-wide finals and both vehicles explode in flames so hot the ME hasta use bone marrow to make DNA iden – iden – idennification." She burped. "Tha's what coffee does."

"Drink it anyway," McCoy told her, leaning against the kitchen counter, and she sipped obediently. "How much did you have to drink?" he asked her.

"Don' remember," Regan said.

McCoy sighed. "Do you remember what was so important that you had to wake me up in the middle of the night?"

Regan frowned, concentrating. "Di' I tell you I got shot?" She set the coffee mug down with a click and stood up, pacing a few wobbly steps toward the counter and then back.

"We've covered the subject," McCoy said.

"I got shot," Regan said. "I got shot a lot." She looked down at her stomach, flattening her hands against her midriff. "Four bullets. Got hit hard." She looked up at him again, and he saw that tears stood in her eyes. "Hit hard."

"I know," McCoy said, his annoyance at being woken ebbing a little at the sad look on her face.

Regan shook her head. "You _don'_ know. You _think_ you know. You don' know." She fumbled with her shirt, undoing the buttons, and then pulled it out of the waistband of her pants. "You – you can't – " Her voice broke, and she bit her lip, and then in a sudden movement pulled her shirt open, closing her eyes and turning her face away as she did so.

Her pale flat stomach was covered almost everywhere with pink scars. McCoy could see the puckered marks of healed bullet-holes, three on her stomach and one half-hidden by her utilitarian white bra, and the thinner and more precise record of surgeon's scalpels around them. Scars at her waist puzzled him for a moment until he remembered how long she'd been in intensive care and how many drains and tubes she must have needed.

"You know they say, Jack, that two in the belly and one in the head, knocks a man down an' kills him stone dead," Regan said, eyes still squeezed shut, trying to smile. "You ever hear that?"

"Yes," McCoy said.

"Hear this one? Three in the belly and one in the chest, makes a girl long for a bullet proof vest." She made a sound – McCoy couldn't tell if it was a laugh or a sob. "I got one and a half lungs. One kidney. No spleen. Lost some liver but it grows back. Which is fantastic because of my hobby."

Still with her eyes closed, Regan turned her back to him. The small of her back had three huge lumps of scar tissue, exit wounds the size of a child's fist, along with more straight scalpel scars.

She turned back to face him, eyes open now but her gaze somewhere in the distance. She pulled a face, pouting, fluttering her eyelashes. "Hot stuff, eh, Jack?" She broke into a bad Rod Stewart impersonation: "Do you like my _body_ , do you think I'm _sexy_ … no bikinis for me, hey Jack?" Letting her hands fall to her side, she stood silent, shirt still gaping open. She tilted her head back and stared at the ceiling. "What do you think? How do I _look_ to you now?"

McCoy realized it was imperative he say something – that he say _the right_ thing. Moments from memory flashed through his mind – Regan pushing Ben Strickland away from her in the bar as his hand crept beneath her shirt; the raw panic in her voice when McCoy wanted to check the bruises she'd sustained diving to the ground as Therese McMillan fired; that half-heard conversation she'd had with Doc Graham in Carthage and the old man's cryptic comments _she's come through worse, she's one hell of a tough lady. You caught yourself a survivor._

Margolis's concern lest Regan's cold go to her chest made stark sense in the light of that bullet scar on her ribs.

McCoy had thought she was blowing hot and cold, letting him go only so far before shutting him down and backing away, but now he could see the single common factor. He'd moved to touch her, thinking only of the rangy body under her clothes and his need to feel her, to be closer, to ride the rising tide of desire he knew was sweeping around them both – and that had terrified her.

_Nothing to do with me._

Now, as she stood staring at the ceiling, he knew he had one chance, and one chance only, to prove to her that she'd had no reason for that fear. _How do I look to you now?_ she'd asked, voice thick with alcohol and unshed tears. If he gave the wrong answer she might very well bolt from the apartment and never let him near her again. Worse than that was the thought of how much it would hurt her if he handled this clumsily.

"You look like Regan Markham," he said. Three steps brought him to stand in front of her. He put his hands on her shoulders. "Regan. Did you think I'd care?"

She nodded, gaze fixed over his shoulder, the tears beginning to fall. "Not your fault," she mumbled. "I'm hard to look at, now. I know. Not anybody's _fault_." She shook her head, voice dropping to a whisper. "Sometimes, Jack, you do things, and that's it. They're done. No going back. You get changed. You get scars. No happy endings. No fresh starts."

McCoy took hold the edges of her shirt and pulled them together, then began to do up the buttons. Regan lowered her head and watched his fingers threading first one button then the next through their holes. He finished and put one finger beneath her chin, urging her head up. She raised her head but closed her eyes and McCoy drew her to him, wrapping his arms around her. Regan sighed and laid her head down on his shoulder.

"It's nice of you," she said. "To pretend it doesn't matter."

He tightened his grip on her a little. "You think I'm pretending?"

"There was this guy," Regan said slowly. "Back in Seattle. I thought – I guess, you know, cops, we all get dinged up a little. I didn't realize it was so bad. We got back to my place an' he took off my shirt an' – an' – an' I saw this _look_ on his face. An' that was it."

"Cooled his ardor?" McCoy said.

"He threw up," Regan said. "So, yeah." She shrugged a little, body moving against his. "He said – it was the alcohol. We were both pretty lit up. But – he didn't look at me. He got out of there as fast as he can an' he never once took his eyes off the floor."

 _Son of a bitch._ It wasn't until he felt Regan wince that McCoy realized how hard he was holding her. He loosened his grip a little, but his anger remained. He could imagine the scene – he could imagine Regan's face, the way she lifted her chin and bit her lip when she was trying to pretend she didn't care about something, the way she scratched her left cheekbone with her right hand when she couldn't keep up the pretence and was trying to hide tears. _Son of a bitch_. That nameless, faceless man in Seattle hadn't bothered to look past the evidence of her terrible wounds to see the woman who'd survived them, to see her courage and her humor and the bravery with which she ignored her own vulnerability. _God damn that son of a bitch._

"Sounds like you had a lucky escape," he said after a moment, voice conversational. "Imagine if you'd slept with him and _then_ found out what a moron he was."

Regan gave a whimper of laughter, face pressed against his shoulder. "I hadn't thought about it that way."

"Imagine if the condom broke," McCoy said. "You could have been stuck raising Moron junior." He ran his hand over her hair. "The parent-teacher interviews would have been excruciating."

Regan's shoulders shook, laugher or sobs. "I guess, when you put it that way … you don't all look away, you know. Some guys – cops, EMTs, they _can't_ look away. I see their eyes, I see – the eagerness. They wanna talk about it. They wanna touch the scars. That's _all_ they wanna touch." She shivered. "It's like it makes them more of a man. And it makes me – less than a woman."

McCoy realized then why she hadn't looked him in the eye since she'd undone the last button on her shirt. _She doesn't want to know which I am – revolted or excited._

"Do you really think all men fall into one of those two categories?" he asked. She was silent. "Regan. Look at me."

Slowly, she lifted her head and met his gaze. Then he realized she had reached between them. Her hand found him and she gave a sad little smile. "Cooled _your_ ardor, didn't I?"

"I like my women sober enough to give consent," McCoy said. "And without vomit in their hair."

"In my hair?" Regan asked. "Gross." She leaned away from him so she could pull a strand forward and went a little bit cross-eyed trying to look at it.

"Certainly not the most seductive of perfumes," McCoy teased.

"So are you – are you _saying_ that if I washed my hair and sobered up you'd – you wouldn't care how I look?"

"You look like Regan Markham to me," McCoy said. "Just like you did yesterday."

Regan shook her head. "It's a nice lie," she said sadly. "But it's – still a lie. 'Cause – who is – who is – who is she, anyway, Regan Markham? So how can you say that?"

McCoy tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and ran his finger along her jaw. "We've worked together. We've eaten together. We've slept on the same bed, remember? You backed my play in the Watts trial." He stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers. "We've seen each other on the edge, didn't you say? Didn't you tell me that I know everything about you that I need to know?"

He coaxed a small smile from her. "I really am full of shit sometimes," she said.

"That day, you were dead on the money," he said. "You think that I care that you got – what did you say, _dinged up_? A little? A lot? You are who you are. And who you are is the woman I want."

She looked him dead in the eye, lifting her chin a little, biting her lip. " _Prove it_."

 _Oh, Regan_ , McCoy thought. He took hold of her chin between finger and thumb and kissed the lip she was worrying between her teeth, kissed her until he felt her mouth soften against his and the tension leave her body.

Her lips tasted of coffee and sour tequila. McCoy smoothed his hand over her hair and then twisted his fingers in the strands at the nape of her neck, tugging gently until she tilted her head back, her mouth opening against his. He traced her lips with his tongue, caught her lower lip between his teeth and tugged gently, then bent his head to kiss her throat. He trailed kisses down her neck to the hollow of her throat, to the softer skin beneath it that never saw the sun, and slipped his hand under the hem of the shirt. She shivered as his fingers moved over smooth skin, over ridges of scars, and he slid his hand to the small of her back and then down, past the knots of tissue where the bullets had torn their way out of her body. Pulling her against him so she could feel the unmistakable proof she had demanded, McCoy kissed her cheek, tasting the salt of tears, his hands moving her against him, his breath coming faster as Regan slid her arms around his neck. She moaned softly, running her fingers through his hair, and pushed her leg between his. McCoy gasped a little, hips jerking involuntarily, feeling her sinewy body pressed against his.

"Satisfied?" he asked her, voice a little hoarse.

"Not nearly," Regan murmured huskily, her eyes dark and dazed.

McCoy kissed her again and then reluctantly disentangled himself from her. Regan murmured a wordless protest and he shook his head. "I meant what I said. And I promised Lennie I wouldn't take advantage of you."

She sighed, and laid her head back down on his shoulder, leaning limply against him. Enunciating carefully, she said: "Your quixotic sense of gallantry manifests itself at the most goddamn inconvenient moments."

"Tell me about it," McCoy said drily, and won a laugh from her. "Come on. You're going to feel bad enough tomorrow as it is. You should try to get at least _some_ sleep."

He steered her down the hall toward the spare room and to the bed. She let him lower her down, rolling onto her back with her arm over her eyes. McCoy sat on the end of the bed and began to pull off her shoes.

"Big day for you," he said softly, running his hand over her stockinged foot. "Whitford's conviction, wallpapering, tequila…"

"Typical Friday night in a Markham household," Regan said. She lowered her arm and lifted her head enough to look down at him. "Will you leave the light on?"

"Yeah," McCoy said. "Yeah, I can leave the light on."

Regan dropped her head back to the bed and closed her eyes. McCoy ran his hand over her foot again, and then began to massage the arch gently. He could feel Regan relaxing, hear her breathing slowing. In a few minutes she was soundly asleep.

She looked a mess, most of her makeup gone except for traces of mascara under her eyes, hair long escaped from its band, spots of vomit on her rumpled clothes.

McCoy thought he'd never seen her look so beautiful.

He stretched out beside her, resting his hand lightly on her arm, and watched her sleep until his own eyes closed. Even then, the sound of her breathing was the common thread to all his dreams.

* * *

.oOo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Regan is humming along to is "Hold On To Me" by the Cowboy Junkies.


	51. Nix And Nil

_Office of EADA Jack McCoy_

_10_ _th_ _Floor, One Hogan Place_

_5 pm Saturday February 3_ _rd_ _2007_

* * *

McCoy turned the page of his file, ran his fingers through his hair, and made a note in the margin.

"Hey, Jack," Regan said from the doorway.

He looked up and smiled. "I didn't expect you in today."

"Mr Branch called me," she said. "Told me to be in his office by half-past five."

"How are you feeling?" McCoy asked.

She colored and looked down at her feet. "I've felt better."

Regan had still been deeply asleep when McCoy had left for the office, conscious of the files that had been piling up on his desk while he had been concentrating more on second-guessing Tracey Kibre than his own workload. He'd left her a note, couldn't find the key on top of the fridge but figured she wouldn't need to come and go.

She'd obviously been home and showered and changed, but to McCoy's informed eye the signs of her hangover were clear in the shadows beneath her eyes and the pallor of her skin.

If it hadn't been for Arthur Branch in the office down the hall he could have locked the door and pulled her down onto the couch right then and there.

It wasn't as if there weren't plenty of other women he could have – women in this building, a little further away from Branch's attention. _Casey, maybe_. _Christine. That new ADA in Rackets, the blonde._ Or others, a phone call away. _Danielle. Carla Tyrell._

He wasn't interested in any of them. McCoy knew himself well enough to know it was partly _because_ Branch had laid down the law. It had been the same with Sally, with Diane – with Claire. _The thrill of transgression, the allure of forbidden fruit._ And perhaps also the challenge he'd found in Regan's resistance. Certainly, she wasn't the most stunning beauty he'd pursued and taken to bed. If he'd met her for the first time beside Abbie Carmichael or Alex Cabot, he wouldn't have given Regan a second glance.

But for whatever reason, now that he had become aware of her, her lean limbs, her spare frame, he couldn't look at her without wanting to touch her, to trace the firm line of her jaw or feel her square shoulders beneath his hands, just as now he knew the complexity of the woman behind the junior ADA façade he couldn't stop seeing her strength and her vulnerability, her fragility and resilience.

And now he knew all her secrets, the reason for her reluctance, and just how to overcome it. Not now, but soon, perhaps tonight, he _would_ touch her, feel her rangy body against his. He shifted slightly in his chair at the thought.

"Jack," Regan said awkwardly, and then closed the door behind her. "Jack, last night – did I do or – or _say_ – anything I shouldn't have?"

"You don't remember?" McCoy said, taken aback.

"Not much past the fifth tequila," Regan admitted.

"You – " McCoy paused, choosing his words. "You don't have anything to worry about," he said at last. "Nothing at all." _She doesn't know what she did and said with a skinful of Dutch courage._ He'd find the right time to tell her.

Regan opened her mouth to say something further, but was interrupted by the side door opening. Arthur Branch looked from McCoy to Regan and frowned.

"My office, Jack," he said curtly.

McCoy glanced at Regan, shrugged, and followed his boss through the door.

When they were in Branch's office with the door closed, Branch sank into his chair and thumped his desk with his fist. "Keep the door of your office _open_ , Jack. Think how it looks."

"I don't care how it looks," McCoy said stubbornly.

"EADA screwing junior ADA, think about how _that_ looks in the papers," Branch said. "Adam Schiff might have let you fish off the company pier, but times have changed."

"Well, maybe I should return Vanessa Galliano's calls," McCoy retorted. "Your EADA screwing a defense attorney, would _that_ look better in the papers?"

"For chrissakes, Jack!" Branch spluttered. "Why can't you just find yourself a nice cocktail waitress?"

"Because strange as the idea might seem to you, I actually like to _talk_ to women."

"Nobody has any problems with you _talking_ ," Branch said. He heaved himself to his feet and strode to the door, opening it. "Ms Markham? Can you come in here, please?"

Regan obeyed, stopping just inside the door, smoothing her jacket nervously.

"Ms Markham, I've told you this before, but let me make myself absolutely clear. Your position in this office is tenuous at best. Any scandal will make it _untenable._ You should _both_ remember that."

Regan nodded, shooting a quick glance at McCoy.

"You can start getting yourself back into my good graces right now," Branch said to her. "The Manhattan Retired Police Officers benefit is tonight. You'll be there, and you'll make a speech introducing me as the key-note speaker."

"I'm not much of a politician," Regan said.

"You weren't much of a lawyer when I hired you, but you seem to have learned on the job," Branch said.

"I don't know what to say!" Regan protested.

"Don't worry," Branch said. He took a sheet of paper from his pocket and held it out to her. "It's all in here."

"I'm not sure – " Regan said, looking at the paper. "I don't know – this stuff about Seattle. I'd rather keep that private."

"Everything comes out in the end," Branch said. He looked meaningfully at McCoy. "Sooner or later." He picked up his coat and went to the door. "Coming, Ms Markham?"

"Five minutes," Regan said. "To learn this."

"The car will be downstairs," Branch said. "And a couple of smart lawyers like you two – don't forget _Nix v Williams_."

Regan looked puzzled.

"The principle of inevitable discovery," McCoy said softly as the door closed behind Branch.

Regan looked down at the paper in her hands and then up at McCoy.

"I had the feeling this was coming," she said.

"Arthur can't force you to make a speech at a political fundraiser," McCoy said.

"I think he _can_ ," Regan said. "I think he can do a lot of things."

"Are you worried about what he said?" McCoy asked, with a sinking feeling simple disappointment couldn't explain. "About scandal?"

"I want to keep my _job_ , Jack," Regan said.

"Do you really think you have to make that choice?" he asked, moving a little closer to her.

Regan paused. She looked at him, and he saw her answer in her eyes before she bit her lip and lifted her chin. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I really do."

McCoy held her gaze for a moment, and then reached past her to open the door. He heard her breath catch as his arm brushed hers. When she turned to leave he ushered her through the door, one hand lightly on the small of her back. Regan hesitated at the threshold, looking back at him. For a moment he thought she would smile, would say _what Arthur doesn't know won't hurt him._

Would say _let's get that drink after all, Jack._

She _did_ smile, but sadly. McCoy let his hand fall to his side.

Regan touched his arm gently, and leaned forward. Her lips brushed his cheek, saying _friends only_ as clear as any words ever could. Then she turned and walked away from him down the corridor, chin up.

She didn't look back.

* * *

.oOo.

* * *

_fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read this far, if I've amused and diverted you for a little while, please consider leaving a comment.


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